December 21

USAMRIID

Fort Detrick—Frederick, Maryland

12:27 a.m.

(7 hours, 36 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

 

Colonel John Zwawa wore the day with a weariness that grew with each passing moment, every challenge magnified by the blood pressure intensifying in his veins.

Chaos had broken out at the United Nations. Scythe had killed Iran’s Supreme Leader, the highest-ranking political and religious authority of the nation. The Council of Guardians had convened in an emergency meeting in Tehran, naming Ayatollah Ahmad Jannati their new Supreme Leader. Jannati, head of the hard line Council of Guardians and one of the biggest opponents of democratic reform in Iran—a man who once told worshippers that he wished someone would shoot Israeli Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni—now commanded Iran’s new cache of nuclear-tipped Russian-made ICBMs.

The new Supreme Leader remained sequestered in a private suite somewhere in the Secretariat Building; only a handful of mullahs knew his location. Through an emissary, he was demanding to be taken by chopper to JFK International Airport, where he would be flown by private jet back to Tehran. What Jannati didn’t know was that his last encrypted e-mail to Tehran had been intercepted by the NSA and translated.

Upon his return to Tehran, Iran’s new Supreme Leader would declare himself Mahdi, the prophesied redeemer of Islam, initiating the Yaum al-Qiyamah, the Day of the Resurrection, where he, as the "Guided One," would rid the world of terror, injustice, and tyranny. Translation: Jannati intended to unleash Iranian insurgents armed with nuclear suitcase bombs, targeting Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Riyadh, and the Victory Base Complex that served as the US military’s headquarters in Baghdad.

Briefed in his suite at the UN, President Eric Kogelo had immediately ordered all evacuation plans delayed until dawn while he and his advisors decided how best to handle the developing situation.

While the president’s staff covertly organized an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council, it was left to Colonel Zwawa to clean up the mess in Manhattan.

The Big Apple was rotting from the inside. New estimates coming in from health officials at ground zero were placing the death toll at well over half a million people, with the dead and dying contaminating another hundred thousand every hour. Apartment buildings and high-rises were becoming Scythe incubators, the streets and alleyways repositories for the infected, and there was nowhere to escape except into the rivers.

To contain a potential mass exodus, the military had deployed another four armed Reaper drones, along with three more Coast Guard patrol boats. Fortunately, the river’s currents were swift, with water temperatures dipping below forty-five degrees, making immersion a baptism into hypothermia.

But Zwawa knew that desperation fueled creativity, and by dawn legions of survivors with access to scuba gear could manage to elude the Reaper’s thermal scans and find their way to the shorelines of Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and New Jersey, their arrival unleashing a global pandemic. As a precaution, Manhattan’s neighboring boroughs were being evacuated, along with the Jersey shoreline communities of Englewood and all parts south to Bayonne.

The question remaining was how to deal with Manhattan.

 

The facility was located six stories underground, its existence known only to a handful of non-black ops intelligence personnel. Exiting the elevator, Colonel Zwawa was escorted through two more security checkpoints before being led through a nondescript white-tiled corridor to a set of steel doors labeled dept. c.

The locks unbolted, the left door swung open, greeting him with a blast of INXS from the interior sound system.

John Zwawa entered the chamber, the room heavily air-conditioned. Seated alone at a rectangular light table was a man in his forties, his head clean-shaven, his complexion kept tan all-year-round by a UV bed. He was wearing an orange-and-white Hawaiian shirt, surfboard shorts, and Teva sandals. The sunglasses were prescription, the pipe tobacco laced with opium.

As the colonel approached, he realized that the tabletop was actually a 3D hologram, the image created by a real-time satellite view of Manhattan. “I’m Zwawa.”

The man tapped his sunglasses, the stereo lowering. “Dino Garner.” The physical chemist reached beneath the table to a small refrigerator, removing a can of soda. “Dr Pepper?”

“No thanks.”

“Been analyzing your problem, Zwawa. You got lucky and screwed at the same time.”

“How’s that?”

“Got lucky in that it happened in Manhattan. If this had happened in any other New York borough, you’d be screwed six ways to Sunday. As an island, you were able to establish a quarantine, hence you got lucky. You also got screwed, being that Manhattan is also the most densely populated and expensive piece of real estate in the world . . . all of which complicates my job—cleaning up your mess.”

Garner walked around the table, eyeing the skyline from different angles. “In essence, this comes down to incinerating every biological and organic contaminant, dead or alive. That means human, rodent, flea, tick, bird, and the family Chihuahua—all while maintaining the infrastructure. As we say around here, that’s a simple complexity. I’m still calculating the minimal number of delivery systems, but the basics are sound. We do this in two phases. Phase I is to create a very dense cloud ceiling of carbon dioxide just above Manhattan’s skyline, combined with a few other stabilizing elements. We’ve already commandeered three turbine jet engine Air Tractors from a Jersey pesticide company, with two more on their way. Chemical payloads should arrive at Linden Commuter Airport within three hours. Another hour to load up, then it’s a quick flight over the New York Harbor to Manhattan.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Garner . . . why do we need a CO2 ceiling?”

“It’s Dr. Garner, and you need the cloud ceiling to contain Phase II, the burn. Think of it as putting a tent over a house before you fumigate it for pests. In our case, we’re going to fumigate the entire city, using a combination of white phosphorous, magnesium, and a few ingredients you don’t want to know about, all to create enough heat to melt flesh off the bone.

“Oxygen will be the catalyst, the combustible gas that fuels the furnace. Once the fuse is lit, it’ll torch every pocket of oxygen in the city—the subway tunnels, the ratholes, the apartments—it’ll all go up in one massive flash fire that will smother itself as soon as the air burns up.”

“Jesus . . .”

“Jesus only walked on water. Incinerating two million plague victims and three million rats requires serious ingenuity. Fortunately for you, this is how I make my living.”

Colonel Zwawa felt ill. “This carbon-dioxide cloud, how long must it remain over the skyline?”

“No worries. It’ll disperse when the incendiary charges go off.”

“No, I mean . . . how long can it remain in place before we decide to . . . you know, to fumigate?”

“I’m not following.”

“The president needs an excuse to delay the UN evacuation. Scythe is spreading rapidly through human contact as well as the rat population, specifically by way of infected fleas. My epizootic specialist is worried about these same fleas infecting birds, especially pigeons. An infected pigeon could deliver Scythe into New Jersey or the other four New York boroughs by first light.”

“The carbon dioxide will kill any escaping bird. There’s your excuse for releasing the CO2 cloud.”

“And for delaying the UN evacuation.”

“You’re a blessed man, Colonel. To answer your question, in this weather the cloud should remain stagnant until dawn. We’d have to launch Phase II by then, or the sun’s rays will gradually burn it off. Figure 8 a.m., give or take a few minutes.”

Colonel Zwawa checked his watch. “Seven and a half hours. Can you pull everything together that soon?”

“It’ll be done, and that’s all you need to know. As for the infrastructure, it’s gonna be three to five months before anyone can move back in, but that’s your headache, not mine.”

“May I ask you a personal question, Doctor?”

“You want to know how I sleep at night.”

“Forget it.” Zwawa shook his head, turning for the steel doors.

“Guilt is for civilians, Colonel, blame is for the pundits and politicians. Down here, we make choices . . . it’s an old game we call us or them. You want my advice? Take a Vicodin and a shot of Captain Jack, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

 

Trinity Cemetery

Washington Heights, Manhattan

12:33 a.m.

 

There were six of them, all Latinos, all in their teens, dressed in black jackets and red, white, and blue bandannas—the colors of the Dominican Republic’s flag. A violent group, the DDP (Dominicans Don’t Play) had carved out their territory in Washington Heights, Queens, and the Bronx, moving drugs through their connections in the Colombian crime cartel.

A cornrowed eighteen-year-old named Marquis Jackson-Horne straddled Shep, leaning in close. “No wallet or bling . . . whoa, what’s dis? Got somethin’ in your coat fo’ me?”

He tore open Shep’s jacket, revealing the polished wooden box. The gang leader grabbed it—

—Shep’s prosthetic arm jumped to life, its curved blade pressing against the muscular youth’s Adam’s apple, his right hand grabbing a fistful of Marquis’s leather coat, drawing him in close. “Sorry, friend, you can’t have that.”

Instantly, five 9mm handguns appeared, every barrel aimed at Shep’s face.

“Remove the blade, nice and slow, whitebread.”

“If they fire, I’ll still manage to slice open your throat. Tell your crew to back off, and I’ll let you go.”

No one moved.

“There’s no money in the box, just medicine . . . for my daughter. I know the world’s gone insane, and you could give a rat’s ass, but maybe just once before you meet your Maker, you and the homeboys here could do the right thing.”

The gang leader’s eyes widened, revealing an inner rage. “Do the right thing? You messin’ with the wrong gangbanger, Spike Lee. I’m a hater. I’m fightin’ a war.”

“I just got back from fighting a war. Four tours’ worth. Now I’m a hater, too, only you know what I just realized? Haters hate because they think they’ve been wronged, now all they want is justice . . . only justice and happiness don’t mix very well. My family hasn’t been in my life for eleven years. I blamed a lot of people for that. Now I just want them back.”

Marquis’s eyes lost their intensity. “Nobody move. You neither, Captain Hook.” Gently, he unlatched the box, revealing the vials of serum. The gang leader turns to his crew. “Ya stuvo.”

The Dominican teens looked at one another, unsure.

“You heard me. Roll out!”

Tucking their guns back into their waistbands, the teens walked away.

Shep waited until they’d reached Broadway before releasing their leader. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to kill.”

“I’ve killed, too. Trust me, there are better ways to live out your days.”

“Fuck you. You don’t know shit about me. My mother’s dead. Cousins, too. My little sister’s dyin’ in her bed, spittin’ up blood. Six years old, never did nuthin’ to hurt nobody.”

Shep reached inside the box, removing two vials. “Give this to your sister. Have her drink it, you do the same.”

“You crazy.”

“It’s plague vaccine. Take it. Tell no one about it.”

The gang leader stared at the vials. “This for real?”

“Yeah. Watch the side effects, it causes hallucinations. It probably won’t bother your sister, but it makes you see things about yourself you may not want to see.”

“Why you givin’ me this?”

“I have a daughter.”

“And me?”

“Call it a chance at transformation.”

“Maybe I should just take the whole box.”

“You’d never make it home. The military’s after me, no doubt they’re watching us by satellite as we speak. Go. Save your sister. The two of you find a way off this island.”

Marquis hesitated. Then he jogged off.

Shep turned—

—confronted by Virgil. “That was dangerous. He’ll come back with his gang to collect the rest of the vials. We have to go.”

“What about the Grim Reaper?”

“Pray your act of kindness buys us some time before he finds you again.”

 

United Nations Plaza

12:43 a.m.

 

Bertrand DeBorn waited in the back of the black Chevy Suburban, seated behind the driver. Both Ernest Lozano and the secretary of defense were wearing gas masks.

The former CIA operator glanced at his boss in the rearview mirror. The rebreather secured to DeBorn’s face had left his silky white hair unkempt, revealing patches of scalp and liver spots near the head straps. His gray-blue upturned eyes appeared menacing behind the plastic shield as they stared, unblinking, out the rear window.

Lozano saw Sheridan Ernstmeyer reappear beyond the secured perimeter, escorted by a man wearing a white Racal suit. The female assassin double-timed it back to the Suburban and climbed in the backseat. She was breathing heavily behind her mask.

“Well?”

“It’s bad. They gave up on containment twelve hours ago, now they’re just trying to organize an evacuation.”

“Can your contact get word to the president that I’m down here?”

“He’s just local PD; there’s no way he can reach him.”

DeBorn slammed his fist against the back of the driver’s seat. “I’m the damn secretary of defense!”

“Sir, all communications have been shut down, with the exception of a secured line between Washington and Kogelo’s suite. No one’s allowed on the president’s floor, not even the CDC.”

“Sonuvabitch.” DeBorn’s mask fogged up. He fought the urge to rip it from his face and heave it out the window.

“Sir, there’s something else. Special Ops is organizing an assault team, my contact’s one of the cops selected for their ground support. They’re after Shepherd.”

DeBorn’s gaunt face paled.

“It’s not what you think. Shepherd escaped the VA hospital with a case of Scythe vaccine.”

DeBorn sat up, his mind racing. “We need to find Shepherd before they do . . . he’s our ticket out.” The secretary searched his jacket pockets, retrieving a piece of folded notepad paper with Beatrice Shepherd’s address.

“Get us to Battery Park City . . . fast.”

Ernest Lozano turned around to face him. “Sir, every street in Manhattan’s stuck in endless gridlock. People have abandoned their cars–”

”Drive on the damn sidewalk if you have to, I don’t care. We need to get to Shepherd’s family before the military does.”

 

Manhattanville/Morningside Heights

1:37 a.m.

 

The buildings and streetlamps were dark, the densely packed neighborhood set aglow by hundreds of car fires and the streams of conflagration dispensed from the authorities’ flamethrowers. Plague-infested corpses riddled the streets. Plague-riddled victims staggered along sidewalks and lay sprawled on curbs—their mouths and nostrils blotched in blood as if they had just finished cannibalizing the neighborhood. The surreal scene swept south down Broadway, as if taken straight out of a 1970s horror movie.

Homeland Security, dressed in storm-trooper black, their faces concealed behind gas masks, advanced in formation down the vehicle-littered avenue, herding the angry mob back inside their apartment dwellings. Sensing an ambush, a cop ignited a cluster of bodies with his flaming stream of propane and natural gas, chasing off a black woman and her two young children who had been hiding behind the remains of the deceased. The shrieking mother dragged her screaming kids down the sidewalk, all three engulfed in the blaze, the infested flesh dripping from their bones.

Shots were fired from the surrounding buildings’ darkened recesses. Two officers went down; their comrades returned fire.

“Pull back!”

Dragging their wounded, they moved toward the safety of their fleet of Hummers.

A Hispanic woman, hysterical over the death of her infant, tossed her lifeless child from a third-story window. The fragile corpse struck one of the retreating storm troopers, who freaked out—

—his reaction compelling dozens of enraged, grief-stricken parents to hurl the infected remains of their dead offspring from their balconies and windows, pinning down the militia in the middle of Broadway’s southbound lanes.

The change in tactics energized the revolt. Within minutes, hundreds of locals were streaming out of their apartment buildings, armed with baseball bats and knives, handguns and assault weapons. A final outburst of flames, and the battle was over, the masses victorious, their burning rage quelled, but only for the moment.

Reclaiming the streets, the multitudes scattered, unleashing their wrath upon local businesses, smashing windows as they looted their own neighborhood.

Virgil pulled Shep from the scene, leading him around rows of abandoned cars, the campus of Columbia University in the distance. “The breakdown of social order . . . it’s always followed by chaos. We’re bearing witness to a test of faith, Patrick. It appears as if Satan has won.”

 

The Reaper hovered a thousand feet above Broadway, its scarlet eyes focused on the street below—

—its remote operator, thirty miles away, scanning faces in the crowd on his monitor. Each head shot was sent to a physiognomic range finder, which created a two-dimensional facial map using eighteen plotted points. The reciprocal points were then compared to a three-dimensional morphology of the targeted subject’s face, already loaded into the computer.

The optical scanner zoomed in on the old man and his younger companion as they moved quickly south down Broadway. The younger man’s image was acquired, pixelized, refocused, and plotted.

match confirmed: target acquired.

“Major, we found him! Subject is heading south on Broadway, approaching West 125^th Street.”

Rosemarie Leipply leaned over the drone pilot’s shoulder, confirming the match. “Well done. Lock onto the subject, then alert Captain Zwawa’s people on Governor’s Island. Be sure they’re receiving the live feed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Governor’s Island, New York

1:53 a.m.

 

The MH-60G Pave Hawk reverberated on its landing struts, the combat helicopter’s rotors violating the cold December night. The nine members of the Army Ranger extraction team were already seated in back, waiting impatiently for the last recruit to climb aboard.

David Kantor willed his exhausted body to carry him and the forty pounds of equipment strapped to his back across the lawn to the waiting airship. As he approached the open side door, two Rangers reached down and dragged him on board, practically tossing him onto the far bench.

Major Steve Downey leaned in next to him, powering on the headset built into David’s mask. “You Kantor?”

David nodded.

The Ranger offered a gloved handshake, shouting to be heard. “Major Downey, welcome aboard. I understand you’re familiar with our target.”

David grabbed on to the bench as the helicopter lurched into the air. “We served a tour together in Iraq.”

“That it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Downey pulled his mask and hood off, revealing spiked hair, a goatee, and harsh hazel eyes. “Your record shows you crossed paths on at least three tours. Your personnel records indicate you invited him to your oldest daughter’s wedding, though he never showed. Don’t screw with me, Kantor. There are lives at stake . . . the president’s life, the UN delegates, and just maybe every person fortunate enough not to be in Manhattan. My mission is simple—get the vaccine. Whether your pal survives the night is up to him . . . and you. Am I being clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once we land in Morningside Heights, we’ll divide the squad into two awaiting military vehicles. I want you seated next to me.”

“Yes, sir. Wait . . . did you say Morningside Heights? I was told we’d be landing in the Battery.”

“One of our drones spotted Shepherd in the vicinity of Columbia University, that’s our new destination. The wife’s strictly backup at this time. Is that a problem, Captain?”

David closed his eyes behind the tinted mask. “No, sir.”

 

Cathedral of St. John the Divine

Amsterdam Avenue, Morningside Heights

1:57 a.m.

 

There were thousands of them. Some had traveled miles on foot, others lived in the surrounding neighborhoods. Their government had abandoned them, the medical industry had no answers, and so they sought help from a higher power, pushing their infected loved ones in wheelbarrows and shopping carts. They pounded the sealed arched doors and shouted into the night, their pleas for last rites and salvation falling upon deaf ears . . . just as they had in Europe 666 years ago.

Inside the cathedral, the Reverend Canon Jeffrey Hoch moved through the massive hall, his face cloaked behind a red silk scarf. Several thousand people were scattered throughout the chapel, many asleep in the pews.

They had started arriving just before noon, senior citizens at first, as if they could sense the threatening storm. By two o’clock, hundreds were pouring in—angry families and frustrated tourists caught in the chaos, everyone seeking a warm place to wait out the hours, preferably one with a clean restroom.

The rush began an hour before dusk, when anger and confusion turned to desperation, desperation to fear. A mandatory curfew meant several hundred thousand people would be channeled into school gymnasiums, missions, and Madison Square Garden, the latter igniting memories of Hurricane Katrina and the chaos of the Superdome—only this time the desperate, destitute, and poor would be sharing space with the infected. As the multitudes began lining up along Amsterdam Avenue to be screened, Bishop Janet Saunders had ordered the clergymen inside, the cathedral sealed.

The Reverend Hoch paused to light a prayer candle, joined by Mike McDowell, the dean of the religious school. “Reverend, this isn’t right. How can we keep the public from sanctuary? How can we continue to deny the dying their last rites.”

“I am no longer in charge. You must speak with Bishop Saunders.”

“John the Divine is a multidenominational cathedral. I don’t recognize the bishop’s authority.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. McDowell, I do.”

The pounding on the three-ton bronze doors continued unabated, the sound dispersed throughout the cavernous 601-foot-long nave. McDowell headed down the center aisle for the apse, where Janet D. Saunders, the second woman elected primate in the Anglican Communion, was leading a small group of worshippers in prayer.

“Bishop Saunders, may I have a word with you in private?”

The sixty-seven-year-old Kansas native looked up. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of my flock.”

“With all due respect, Bishop, the majority of your flock are locked outside the cathedral, and they’re terrified. St. John’s can take them in; we can provide them with sanctuary.”

“The Almighty has unleashed His plague upon this city, Mr. McDowell. Everyone outside these walls has been exposed. Open the doors now, and you’ll condemn the few whom Jesus has chosen to survive the night.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

McDowell felt his face flush. “And if we are being punished by the Almighty, is this not a prime example of our wickedness? Of our corruption? If we simply allowed those in need to seek refuge in our basement away from the uninfected, would this not convince God that we are worthy of being saved?”

The worshippers looked to the bishop for rebuttal.

“I considered this, Mr. McDowell. As the hour grew late, I consulted the Bible for answers. The first time God decided to strike down the wicked, he instructed Noah to build an ark, a vessel of salvation similar in size to the dwelling in which we now find ourselves. Noah warned the people, but they refused to listen. Once the rains began, no one else was allowed inside the ark, for the Angel of Death had come. The ark is now closed, Mr. McDowell. The Angel of Death shall not enter these premises.”

Thirty-seven worshippers breathed a sigh of relief, a few actually applauding.

 

The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors reached them seconds before the spotlight isolated them from the darkness.

Patrick and Virgil looked up, the Army chopper hovering overhead, preparing to land.

“We need to find cover . . . better yet, a crowd.”

“This way.” Virgil led him down West 113^th Street past rows of candlelit apartments, the spotlight staying on them like an angel’s halo. They emerged on Amsterdam Avenue, the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine looming across the street, the grounds a refugee camp for tens of thousands. They quickly melted into the crowd, ducking low as they gradually made their way around the Peace Fountain—

—the spotlight losing them as they cut across a snow-covered expanse of lawn, emerging on Cathedral Parkway.

The night swirled. Patrick’s vision blurred. He looked up—

—shocked to see a black winged demon hovering eighty feet overhead, its unblinking scarlet eyes staring at him, as if looking through the void into his soul.

Virgil grabbed him by the arm, tugging him hard. The two men cut through an alleyway sandwiched between apartment buildings, only to find the passage blocked by stacks of human corpses. Retracing their steps, they zigzagged around abandoned vehicles.

The Pavehawk’s searchlight picked them up again as they hurried down Amsterdam Avenue. Virgil bent over, out of breath. “Go on . . . without me.”

“No.” Shep looked around, desperate to find a place to hide—

—as a flock of winged demons dropped from the sky overhead. Time slowed to a crawl, each double cadence of his beating heart magnified in his ears, the night creatures descending from above, attempting to swoop him up in their talons—

The searchlight swiveled as the chopper battled a forty-mile-an-hour gust of wind, the airship’s heavenly blue light illuminating a storefront sign: minos pizzeria.

Every business on Amsterdam Avenue had been vandalized, every window broken, every store left in shambles except for Minos Pizzeria. As the light refocused on Shep, he could see sixty to eighty homeless people standing guard outside the premises—and not one looter dared cross their gauntlet.

Shep helped Virgil to the storefront, the ragged men and women blocking their way. “Please, we need a place to hide.”

A stocky Italian man with salt-and-pepper hair and an unruly goatee and glasses pulled out a large bowie knife. “Walk away or die.”

Shep saw the dog tags hanging around the man’s unshaven neck. “Patrick Shepherd, Sergeant, United States Marines, LIMA Company, Third Battalion, 25^th Marine Regiment.”

“Paul Spatola, 101^st Airborne.”

“Who are you guarding, Spatola?”

“The owners of the pizzeria. They’re good people.”

“I can save them.” Shep opened the polished wooden box, showing him the vials. “Plague vaccine. The government wants it to disappear. We need sanctuary—fast.”

Spatola looked around, his eyes drawn to the helicopter’s searchlight. Rangers were rappelling down to the street. “Come with me.” He led them through the crowd of homeless, then banged on the rolled-up aluminum security gate covering the front glass doors.

The door opened a crack. The man inside remained hidden in the shadows, his voice muffled behind a painter’s mask. “What’s wrong?”

“This vet and his grandfather need to get off the streets. He says he has a vaccine for the sickness.”

“A vaccine?”

Shep pushed in closer. “The military’s right behind us. Help us, and we’ll help you.”

A woman’s voice called out from inside the restaurant. “Paolo, don’t!”

A flashlight passed over Patrick’s face, the small box in his hand, then on Virgil. “Should I trust you?”

The old man nodded. “Only if you and your wife wish to survive this night.”

On Amsterdam Avenue, heavily armed Rangers moved through the crowd, searching faces. “Inside, quickly.” Unlocking the grating along its base, Paolo rolled the gate up high enough to allow the two strangers to enter.

Paul Spatola quickly slammed the security fencing back down so it locked, then passed the word, “No one gets through.”

The pizzeria was empty. An aroma of Italian meat coming from the dark recesses of the kitchen set Shep’s stomach to gurgle. He headed for the food—

—Paolo stopped him. “I need to check your skin for infection.”

They lifted their shirts and lowered their pants, Paolo’s light scanning their necks and armpits, legs and groins. Shep jumped as a cat nuzzled his left calf muscle from behind.

“You seem clean. Come with me.” They followed the Italian past checkerboard-clothed tables back through the kitchen. Spread out on a row of aluminum tables were half-sliced salamis and bricks of cheese, loaves of bread and a tray stacked with already prepared sandwiches. “Take what you want; the homeless get the rest. Everything’s spoiling anyway.”

Shep grabbed a sandwich, consuming it in three bites. “Virgil, take something.”

“I’ve eaten, and we don’t have much time. The soldiers will—”

The aluminum door of the walk-in refrigerator swung open, revealing a pregnant Italian woman with jet-black hair. In her hand was a shotgun.

“It’s okay, Francesca. They’re clean.”

“No one’s clean. This plague will kill us all.”

They heard men arguing outside. Shots were fired.

“Quickly, inside the cooler!” Paolo hurried Shep and Virgil inside the walk-in refrigerator, slamming the door closed behind them.

They huddled in the stifling darkness alive with meowing cats and the rotting stench of spoiling perishables. A dull circle of light from the woman’s dying flashlight settled on her husband, who had pushed aside crates of lettuce and was kneeling by the exposed wet patch of wood floor. In his hand was a thin piece of bent wire. Feeding it through a knothole, he fished until he found a loop of rope. Standing, he pulled hard, dragging open a trapdoor set on hinges. The flickering light from an oil lamp below illuminated a ladder leading down to what appeared to be a basement.

Paolo climbed halfway down, waiting on a rung to assist his pregnant wife.

Virgil was next, followed by Shep. Paolo climbed back up and called for the cats, who scrambled down the hole. Resetting the trapdoor, he slid down the ladder, joining the others.

They were in an old wine cellar, the stone walls and mortar dating back several centuries. The room was stuffy but dry. Cardboard boxes and an old dresser were stacked against the far wall. “Please.” The Italian handed the oil lamp to Virgil, then he began moving aside the stack of boxes, assisted by Shep. Hidden behind the chest of drawers was a small wooden door sealed with a padlock.

“The passage connects with the Eighth Avenue subway line. We can follow it south as far as 103^rd Street, then cut through Central Park. Francesca’s brother has a small boat in the Battery that can take us off the island.”

“The Battery? My wife and daughter are in the Battery!”

“Then the vaccine for your safe passage.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Shep opened the box, removing two of the remaining eight vials.

Francesca snatched the lantern from Virgil. “How do we know it even works, Paolo? How do we know it won’t kill your son?” Francesca shined the light on her belly, then at Shep. “Are you a doctor, Mr. War Vet?”

“The name’s Patrick, my friends call me Shep. This is Virgil. I have no medical training, so I can’t even guess whether the vaccine will affect your baby. So far, the only side effect I’ve experienced are hallucinations—”

“—which is why I haven’t taken it yet,” adds Virgil.

“No medical training, huh?” She held the clear elixir up to the light while her husband opened the padlock sealing the small door. “Three years ago I was studying to become a registered nurse, only I had to quit. Now, instead of working in a hospital with a decent insurance plan, I get to serve pizzas and care for the homeless.”

“Darling, now is not the time. Forgive my wife, she’s due any day now.”

Virgil squinted against the raised lantern. “For what it’s worth, Francesca, I was at the VA hospital earlier with Patrick. They had a pregnant woman infected with plague in an isolation tent. I suspect all who worked there are probably dead by now. As for the homeless, it seems they have repaid their debt.”

Paolo dragged open the wood door, unleashing a howling gust of cold air into the basement. “The homeless are no match for assault weapons, Francesca. Yes or no, should we take the vaccine?”

“For the baby’s sake, I’ll wait. You take yours.”

“Yes, that’s wise . . . my wife is the wise one.” Paolo loosened the cork, then drained one of the vials of vaccine. Lantern in hand, his wife crawled through the opening, followed by Virgil, Shep, and the cats.

Tossing aside the empty vial, Paolo dropped down on all fours and crawled in after them.

 

United Nations

2:11 a.m.

 

They were connected to one another via audio headsets, their spoken words translated into text on their monitors in French, Russian, Chinese, and English—the languages of the five permanent Security Council nations.

President Eric Kogelo drained his bottled water, waiting for the President of the Security Council to take roll.

“Hello. This is Rajiv Kaushik, the Assistant Secretary General. I regret to inform you that the President and Secretary General were both exposed to plague; neither is well enough to participate on this call. Unless there are any objections, I will be fulfilling their duties during this emergency session. Is the gentlemen from France on the line?”

“Oui.”

“The gentlemen from the Russian Federation?”

“Da.”

“The gentleman from China?”

“This is Xi Jinping. President Jintao has taken ill. Since I am the senior member of our party, the Standing Committee has requested my presence at this meeting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jinping. Is the gentle lady from Great Britain with us?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“The gentleman from the United States?”

“Present.”

“Then let us begin with the gentleman from the United States. We have been repeatedly promised that an evacuation is imminent. Why does it seem we are purposely being left here to die?”

“My apologies if it feels that way. This situation is very serious. Our goal is to commence the airlift at dawn.”

A flurry of Russian shot back at President Kogelo, the translated text coming up on his screen in spurts. “This is a disgrace. Entire delegations have been wiped out. You cannot keep us quarantined, it is in direct violation of the United Nations charter.”

Kogelo took a deep breath, refusing to lose his cool. “President Medvedev’s concerns are shared by all of us, my own staff included. But let us be clear. We are facing an outbreak that could easily turn into a global pandemic if the quarantine is not 100 percent secured. The death toll in Manhattan has now exceeded half a million people. All of us have lost colleagues, allies, loved ones, and friends. The last thing any of us wants is to rush the evacuation without proper precautions and end up being the carrier who unleashes the plague in your own countries, and across the globe.”

“We have heard reports that this plague originated in your CIA-run bio labs.”

“Again, a half million people have died, more are suffering, and the vast majority are Americans. There will be a proper time to investigate and assign blame. For now, our priority is to safely transport United Nation diplomats and heads of state to a secure medical facility on Governor’s Island. To accomplish this requires each evacuee to wear a self-contained environmental suit, which will prevent any infected individuals from passing the plague on to others. The environmental suits are en route as we speak, they will be brought to your suites as soon as they arrive. I am also being told that a vaccine has been located that can not only inoculate but reverse the effects of the plague.”

Kogelo waited for the delayed murmurs as his words were translated. “While this is good news, there is another issue that must be discussed. Mr. Kaushik?”

The acting Security Council President took over. “President Kogelo has strong reason to believe Iran’s new Supreme Leader, upon his return to Tehran, will provide Iranian insurgents in Iraq, Israel, and possibly the United States with nuclear suitcase bombs. The transmission you are about to hear comes from a private conversation between Ayatollah Ahmad Jannati and a general who oversees the Qods training centers, which have been linked to insurgent activities.”

Everyone listened intently, their eyes scanning the text as it appeared in their own languages on the monitor.

The senior Standing Committee member from China was first to speak. “I do not hear a threat. I hear only Mr. Jannati’s intention to declare himself Mahdi.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Jinping, our intelligence agencies have provided us with a far more lethal interpretation of his intentions. We are requesting the Security Council to issue stern public warnings to Mr. Jannati, the foreign minister, and Iran’s hard-line clerics that any nation providing enriched uranium to terrorist organizations shall, in the event of an attack, suffer the same fate as the perpetrators.”

“And how are we to know, in the event of such an attack, whether the Iranians were responsible?” the Russian president retorted. “There are factions within your own government, Mr. President, that have been pushing for an invasion of Iran since Vice President Cheney was running the White House. How can we know if a nuclear explosion was not intentionally detonated by the CIA or Mossad in order to instigate war?”

“My administration seeks peaceful solutions to the conflicts in the Middle East.”

“If this is so, why are your troops still occupying Iraq and Afghanistan? When will your military bases in the region be closed? Your new secretary of defense continues to ally himself with Georgian officials, pushing them to challenge our own nonaggression pacts with Abkhazia and South Ossetia. These actions send quite a different message.”

“Secretary DeBorn was chastised for his actions. Our plan is to continue to reduce our troops in Iraq, reaching our targeted goal of fifty thousand by next August. An act of war by Mr. Jannati would undermine these efforts, fuel a neoconservative agenda in both Washington and Tel Aviv, and force us to respond in kind.”

“And what of this plague that has killed off so many, including most of the Iranian delegation. Would this not be considered an act of war in Tehran?”

Eric Kogelo fought to maintain his focus through the headache and fever. “A half million Americans have died. Our largest city has been rendered unlivable. If this were an act of war, then America was the target. Let me again assure you, we shall investigate and bring to justice all those responsible for the plague. What we cannot do is allow these radical factions to succeed in pushing our nations into nuclear war. That is why all of us agreed to come to New York this week—to prevent another war.”

But the Russian was far from done. “Mr. President, in August of 2001, President Putin sent a Russian delegation to Washington, DC, to brief President Bush about an al-Qaeda plot to hijack commercial airliners and fly them into the World Trade Center. We were not the only nation issuing warnings. There were at least a dozen other intelligence agencies that sent warnings, including the Germans, who provided the dates of the attacks. Why were those warnings ignored? The reason became obvious to all—the Bush administration wanted the attacks to succeed so they could justify a second invasion of Iraq. Now here we are, a decade later, only this time the desired target is Iran. Mr. President, if you really want to avert a nuclear holocaust, do not ask us to issue threats against the Iranians. Instead, show the world you mean business by policing the radical elements within your own country that continue to undermine your efforts to bring about peace.”

 

Minos Pizzeria

Amsterdam Avenue

2:19 a.m.

 

Rubber bullets and tear gas had dispersed the homeless, a grenade tearing the steel security gate from its tracks. Major Downey stepped over broken glass and debris, entering the dark storefront. “They’re in here somewhere. Find them.”

The Rangers in black moved through the deserted pizzeria, tossing aside checkerboard-clothed tables and ransacking closets and cabinets, searching every square foot of space that could conceivably hide two grown men.

“Sir, someone was in the kitchen making sandwiches. Looks like they’re gone.”

“The homeless weren’t guarding sandwiches. Search the apartments upstairs.”

Two Rangers exited the walk-in refrigerator, pushing gruffly past David Kantor. The medic entered the warm enclave, the beam of his flashlight revealing containers of pizza dough and grated cheese. He sat down on a crate of tomatoes, his body weary, his nerves on edge. Got to find a way to separate myself from the group and get to Gavi’s school.

He heard the cat meowing somewhere in the darkness, but could not locate it. Saw the crate-shaped wet stain. Tapped on the floorboards with the butt end of his assault rifle. The sound was hollow. He checked the kitchen. Heard the Rangers in the apartment upstairs.

Returning to the wet mark, David stomped on the floorboards with his boot—

—caving in the trapdoor.

 

Subway Passage

2:35 a.m.

 

Three stories beneath a dying city, through a maintenance shaft bored fifty years ago, the fluttering illumination of Paolo’s lantern was all that kept the claustrophobia at bay. Light danced on concrete walls riddled with pipes and graffiti. Shoes scuffed cement against a backdrop of dripping water that nourished unseen puddles cloaked in perpetual darkness. Francesca squeezed her husband’s free hand, her mind burdened with fear, her lower back and shoulders by the unborn child that might never be.

After ten minutes, the shaft intersected the Eighth Avenue subway line. Rails cold and traffic-free made for new obstacles in the shifting light, along with the dead rats. The vermin were everywhere, black clumps of wet fur. Sharp teeth beneath pink noses lathered in blood.

Francesca crossed herself. “Paolo, maybe you should give me the vaccine.”

Paolo turned to Virgil, uncertain. “What do you think?”

“It’s your decision, son. Perhaps you should pray on it.”

Patrick scoffed. “After the story you told me about Auschwitz, how can you possibly suggest prayer?”

“I simply said prayer might help Paolo find the answer. It’s their child. They need to decide, not you.”

“And if God ignores them, like he ignored you? Like He ignored six million of your people during the Holocaust?”

“I never said the Creator ignored our prayers. I said His answer was no.”

“Apparently, He’s still saying no. Think any of those families stranded in their cars on the parkway were praying tonight when the plague took them? Or those people dying on the street?”

“God is not a verb, Patrick. We must be the action. Prayer was never intended to be a request or plea. It is a technology that allows communication into the higher spiritual dimensions, helping to transform the human ego into a more selfless vessel to accept the Light. The Light is the—”

“We don’t have time for the whole Light dissertation. Francesca, take the damn vaccine.”

“Not yet.” Paolo turned, the lantern’s light swimming in Patrick’s eyes. “I think Virgil’s right. In times like these, we must have faith.”

“You know what faith is, Paolo? Faith is nothing more than belief without evidence, a waste of time. The vaccine’s real.”

“Faith is also real,” Virgil retorted. “Or perhaps we are wasting our time trying to find your wife and daughter.”

A sickening rush of anxiety dropped Shep’s blood pressure. “That’s different. You said you spoke with her.”

“Yes, but that was long before so many people got sick. For all we know, she may be dead. Maybe we should head straight for the boat.”

“Bea is not dead.”

“And you know this how?”

Patrick struggled in his skin to remain calm. “Pray your damn prayer, Paolo.”

“O Lord, You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You . . .”

The sensation felt like ice water running down his spine. Shep turned around slowly, his eyes focused on the maintenance shaft. Peering at him from the darkness was the Grim Reaper. Arms raised, scythe frozen in mid-swing. Hooded skull and empty eye sockets aimed at Paolo, the devout man’s words were clearly agitating the supernal being.

“—grant us the grace to desire You with our whole heart, that so desiring You, we may seek and find You, and so finding You, we may love You and share equitably with our neighbors—”

The Reaper screamed in silence, melting back into the shadows of the underground passage.

“—through Christ Jesus we pray this. Amen.”

Shep wiped beads of cold sweat from his forehead, his right hand shaking. “Amen.”

 

Chinatown

2:47 a.m.

 

She was dragged from her nightmare by her hair, the pain forcing Gavi Kantor from her drug-induced stupor and onto her feet. Using her hair as a leash, a wiry man drenched in aftershave pulled her through a basement maze lit by candles. Past doorless bathrooms and into a hallway bordered by a dozen curtained stalls. The sour air reeked like old onions, the grunting sounds coming from these recesses more animal than human. In her delirium, she caught glimpses of male predators forcing naked girls to perform acts that caused her to scream.

The silhouetted man punched her in the back of the head, the glancing blow felling her to her knees.

“Enough!”

The Mexican madam’s rotund mass outweighed the silhouette’s by a good sixty pounds. “Give her to me, she is mine. Come here, Chuleta. Did Ali Chino hurt you?”

Good cop—bad cop. The thirteen-year-old crawled into the woman’s embrace, bawling her eyes out. The madam winked to her associate.

Human trafficking was not prostitution. Human trafficking was the multibillion-dollar global business of kidnapping and purchasing children and young adults to be used as sex slaves. It was the third-most-profitable criminal enterprise in the world. Controlled by organized crime. Dominated by the Russians, Albanians, and Ukrainians, who trafficked women into Western Europe and the Middle East.

America remained a major consumer. Thirty thousand foreign women and children were trafficked into the United States each year. Smuggled across the Mexican border, they were sold to sex rings and transported to stash houses and apartments, some in major cities like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, others in smaller suburban towns, where they hid in plain sight.

But the highway that ran slavery into the United States was far from a one-way street. American children and teenagers were in high demand overseas. A six- to thirteen-year-old could be sold at a six-figure premium. Many end buyers included Saudi princes, “allies” the State Department was loath to crack down upon. When it came to human trafficking, corruption remained the lifeblood of immorality, the public’s indifference its pulse.

The chamber was windowless. A dozen bare mattresses covered the concrete floor. Shared by twenty-two girls, ages ten to nineteen. Working in shifts. Business was rampant at the End of Days.

The “harvest” was mostly Russian and Hispanic. Halter tops and cheap makeup covered emaciated flesh. Bare arms sported track marks and bruises. The victims’ eyes were vacant, as if the light of their souls had been sealed in amber—a result of having been gang-raped and beaten, forced to service twenty to thirty men a day.

The madam kicked a Romanian girl off a mattress, shoving the American teen down in her place. As “surrogate mother,” the matriarch’s job was to psychologically torture her charges before passing them off to male trainers who would repeatedly rape and beat each new recruit into submission. After two weeks, the American merchandise would be drugged and exported to Eastern Europe for sale to the highest bidder. For this, the madam would receive $3,000.00.

“Please let me go! I just wanted to buy a watch—”

The obese woman backhanded Gavi across her face, drawing blood. “You will wait here until I come for you. If you try to escape, the other girls will tell me, and Ali Chino will return. Ali Chino kills many girls. Do you wish to be killed?”

Gavi Kantor’s body shook uncontrollably, her eyes blind with tears. “No.”

“Then do as I say. I am here to take care of you, but you must listen.” She scanned the room, pointing to a Russian girl. “You. Teach her how to use the penicillin.”

With that, the Hispanic overlord left, locking the door behind her.

 

Central Park West

2:45 a.m.

 

Central Park West defined the western border of Central Park, running from 110^th Street south to 59^th Street.

Dousing the lantern, Paolo exited the deserted subway station, leading Francesca, Virgil, and Patrick across Frederick Douglass Circle to Central Park West, darting between abandoned cars.

The moon was cloaked behind endless clouds, its veiled light revealing the high-rise buildings bordering Central Park. Home to some of New York’s wealthiest, the structures had been rendered dark and foreboding. But far from silent. The cries of the destitute and suffering pierced the night, joined by the occasional sickening thud of a body as it plunged from an open window, striking the snow-covered sidewalk below.

Reaching 106^th Street, Paolo led his entourage to the Stranger’s Gate, a modest park entrance composed of a black slate stairway that deposited them in a wooded area. Moving beneath a canopy of American Elms laid bare by winter, they headed east across a hilltop meadow until they came to the tarmac path that was West Drive.

Closet psychotics and sexual deviants roamed the periphery—wolves wearing human flesh whose whispered cravings added another layer of terror to the night. Francesca pulled her husband closer. “We’re too exposed out here. Take us along the ravine.”

Two hundred feet overhead, the Reaper drone hovered, silently tracking its quarry.

The information was relayed over Major Downey’s communicator, the target’s coordinates visible in his right eyepiece. “They’re in Central Park. Let’s move!”

“Sir, we’re missing a man . . . the National Guardsman.”

Downey cursed under his breath as he switched radio frequencies in his headpiece. “Control, I need a track on Delta-8.”

“Delta-8 is four meters south of your present position.”

Downey looked around, confused. He entered the walk-in refrigerator—

—locating David Kantor’s communicator lying in an open container of mayonnaise.

Paolo’s eyes scanned the dark field, searching for the blotch of shadow. “This way.”

Spanning ninety acres of Central Park's northern quadrant, the North Woods was a dense woodland so thick, it obliterated any trace of the surrounding metropolis. Running through the forest was the Ravine, a stream valley encompassing the Loch, a narrow lake that cascaded into five waterfalls before flowing into a brook that paralleled a southbound trail.

Moving quickly across the snow-covered lawn, they reached the forest edge. A frigid wind whipped at their backs, setting the trees to dance. Paolo knelt in the damp grass, shielding his lighter as he attempted to ignite the lantern. The flame would not catch. He tried again and again until his frozen fingers burned. “The wick’s gone. The lantern’s useless. Francesca, try your flashlight.”

Francesca aimed the beam, but it was too faint to penetrate the trees. “Now what?”

“Shh.” Paolo listened, his ears homing in on the rushing sound of water. “Hold hands. I can get us to the trail.” Taking Francesca’s hand, he stepped over brush and entered the woods.

The darkness was so encompassing, he could not see his groping hand in front of him. Through leaves and stumbling over logs, past unseen branches slicing their coats and cheeks, they continued on until the forest floor yielded to a narrow tarmac trail. Somewhere in the pitch ahead was Huddlestone Arch, a natural underpass consisting of huge schist boulders held in place by gravity. Inching forward, ducking their heads, they felt their way through the arch, carefully progressing along the steadily descending path.

A sliver of moonlight revealed the southbound trail. It looped to their right, leading to a small wooden bridge that crossed a stream.

Standing on the bridge was the Grim Reaper.

“Paolo, my feet . . . I need to rest a moment.” Oblivious to the Angel of Death, Francesca approached the bridge, leaning back against its wooden rail.

Shep attempted to shout a warning, only his voice constricted, as if a weight were pressing against his throat. His eyes widened in terror as he watched the Reaper silently raise its scythe high over its right shoulder, the curved metal edge targeting the back of the pregnant woman’s frail neck!

Francesca shivered, her exhaled breath thick and blue in the moonlight. “Suddenly it’s so cold.”

Death grinned at Shep as its cloaked arms—bone wrapped in decaying ligaments, tendons, and flesh—sent its olive-tinged blade arcing downward.

Shep pushed past Paolo in two quick strides, unfurling a backhand strike with his steel prosthetic. The metallic arm caught the Reaper’s scythe mid-strike, the clack of metal meeting metal generating a brilliant orange spark that briefly illuminated the entire ravine.

Temporarily blinded by the light, Shep dropped to one knee, his body trembling.

“What was that?” Francesca whipped her head around, staring wide-eyed at her husband.

“What was what?”

“You didn’t see that flash?”

“No, my love. Virgil?”

The old man was kneeling by Shep. “Son . . . are you all right?”

“The Reaper . . . it’s after Francesca.”

Virgil stared into Shep’s constricted pupils. “Paolo, give your wife the vaccine.”

“But you said—”

“Do it now.”

Francesca took the vial from her husband and drained it, choking on the clear elixir.

Shep stood, the purple spots in his vision gradually fading. “I met his blade with mine. Tell me you saw the spark of light.”

“No, but Francesca obviously saw it. You must have pulled her from the tunnel.”

“The tunnel?”

“The passage every soul must travel through when leaving Malchut, the physical world. The tunnel leads to the Cave of Machpelah, where the patriarchs of all humanity are buried.”

Shep pulled him aside. “The plague . . . all this death—it’s like bait to him, isn’t it?”

“It’s not death, Patrick, it’s the negativity . . . the reactive behavior that is increasing the power of Satan. In a way, the Angel of Darkness is a barometer of man’s psyche. The transgressions of the world have tipped the scales beyond a critical mass, granting Death a free reign. The End of Days is upon us, and this time even the souls of the innocent will not be spared.”

 

Governor’s Island

3:29 a.m.

 

The biohazard lab had been set up in one of the island’s former military residences. Powered by a portable generator growling in the open garage.

Doug Nichols handed Leigh Nelson a mug of coffee. The lieutenant colonel had arrived seven hours earlier from Fort Detrick to supervise the analysis and replication of the Scythe vaccine. The square-jawed veteran smiled at the pretty brunette. “Are you all right?”

Leigh’s lower lip quivered. “I’d be much better if you allowed me five minutes to contact my husband.”

The smile waned. “You can use my cell phone . . . after we’ve identified the vaccine.”

“You’re a real sport.”

“You say you held the box containing the serum? Think you could identify it if you saw it again?”

“Probably.”

Nichols opened his laptop. Typed in the address of a secured Web site. “These are standard field carrying cases Dr. Klipot would have had access to. For instance, these packs are used to transport influenza vaccine.”

“No, it wasn’t metal. This was a polished wood case, fitted with foam packing for twelve vials, each about three fluid ounces.”

“Any identifying marks on the box? Serial numbers? Department logos?”

“None that I can remember. But there was a warning inside the lid. Something about the vaccine containing a powerful neurotransmitter that could produce temporary hallucinogenic effects.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Positive. The Klipot woman wigged out on me shortly after I gave her the antidote. I remember thinking—”

The lieutenant colonel clicked through several pages, searching the site. “Was this the box?”

Leigh stared at the image. “Yes. That’s it, I’m sure of it. What’s wrong?”

“This is a shipping case used for antimicrobic therapies, including tetra-cyclines, chloramphenicol, or streptomycin. AMTs are grown in artificial media from organisms inactivated with formaldehyde and preserved in 0.5 percent phenol. For that reasons and others, serum antibodies need direct access into the bloodstream. You of all people should know that digestible antimicrobic sera can't cross the brain-blood barrier, they must be injected.”

“You think I’m making this up?”

“The Klipot woman escaped under your care. So did Sergeant Shepherd. Now you’re deliberately lying about the nature of the cure. Either everything’s just an inconvenient coincidence, or you’re working with the terrorist groups responsible for infecting Manhattan.”

“That’s insane.”

“Guard!”

An MP rushed in from the next room. “Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Nelson’s been lying to us. Have Captain Zwawa question her . . . under suitable duress.”

 

Central Park, New York

3:51 a.m.

They had made their way through the North Woods. Circumnavigating the North Meadow and the orgy of shadows segregated by bonfires, they crossed the bridge at 97^th Street, where they stopped to rest by the life-sized bronze statue of Danish sculptor Albert Thorvaldsen.

Patrick had left them there to do reconnaissance along the eastern border of the park. Remaining concealed behind a four-foot stone wall, he had surveyed Fifth Avenue. Vehicles clogged the artery. Shadows stirred beneath dark awnings. He was about to leave when a disturbance shook the night.

The two black Hummers were weaving their way south on Fifth Avenue, avoiding the gridlocked lanes by veering onto the extra-wide sidewalk bordering Central Park. Screams cut through the frigid night air as the military vehicles ran over civilians sprawled out along the walkway, crushing limbs and skulls beneath the Hummers’ double-wide tires.

Patrick hurried back through the park, locating the others on the East 96^th Street playground. “They’re coming. We have to move.”

Francesca moaned, her feet aching. “How did they find us so quickly?”

Shep glanced up at the overcast heavens. “Probably using aerial drones to track us down. Come on.”

“Where are we supposed to go?” Paolo asked, annoyed. “We came from the north, there’s nothing to the west but athletic fields, and everything to the south is blocked by the reservoir. They’d overtake us long before we could get around it.”

“We were safer at the pizzeria,” Francesca complained. “I told you not to let them in, Paolo. I begged you.”

“Francesca, please.” Paolo knelt by the frost-covered sliding board, closing his eyes to pray. “God, why have you led us here only to kill us? Lead us out of here safely . . . show us the way!”

“Help us, God, show us the way.” Virgil mimicked Paolo, his inflection dripping with sarcasm.

“Virgil, please—”

“And Moses whined to God, ‘God, do something. We have the Red Sea in front of us and Egyptians in back of us.’ And God answers back, ma titzach alai—why are you yelling to me?’ That’s right, Paolo, Moses was screaming to God, ‘help us’ and God was screaming back, "Why are you yelling to me?’”

Paolo stood. “I . . . I never read this Bible passage before.”

“That’s because the King James version removed it, and no rabbi or priest will ever discuss it. Few could accept that God would answer Moses like this, after all, God is good . . . God is just. What God was telling the Israelites was that they held the power to help themselves.”

“I don’t understand. How could the Israelites cross the Red Sea without God’s help?”

“The answer lies in the verse itself, Exodus verse 14, the most important passage in the entire Torah. By pulling letters in a specific order from lines 19 through 21, you are left with seventy-two three-letter words—the very triads that God had engraved on Moses’s staff.”

“What were they?” Paolo asks.

“The 72 names of God. Not names in the ordinary sense but a combination of Aramaic letters that can strengthen the soul’s connection to the spiritual realm and channel the unfiltered Light. Abraham used the 72 names in his youth to keep from being burned alive by Emperor Nimrod when he was tossed in an oven. Moses used the energy to control the physical universe.”

“Virgil, I’m sorry . . . but how can any of this help us now?”

“Paolo, if you truly believe God is all-knowing and all-seeing, then it’s insulting to think He needs to be reminded to help you. ‘Hey, God, I need you down here, and don't forget my soul mate, my money, my food.’ That's why God the Creator, God the Light said to Moses, ma titzach alai—why are you yelling to me? What God was saying was, ‘Moses, wake up, you have the technology, use it! It’s the concept of mind over matter.”

Shep paced, his eyes focused in the direction of the approaching engines. “Virgil, this really isn’t the time for a sermon.”

The old man grimaced. “Patrick, the connection fostered by the 72 names won't work when your thoughts and actions are impure. Moses doubted, so the sea didn’t part. But one man never wavered in his belief. One devout man took Moses’s staff, engraved with the 72 names, and walked straight into the Red Sea until the water was up to his chin . . . and that was when the waters parted. You see, Paolo, when it comes to faith, there can be no doubt, no ego, only certainty. There are twenty-two letters in the Hebrew alphabet. One key letter is missing from the 72 names of God—the gimel, which stands for ga'avah—the human ego. If you truly believe in God, there can be no room for doubt.”

Shep turned away from the conversation, his adrenaline pumping as he waited for the military vehicles to appear. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide . . . slowed down by a crazy old man and a pregnant woman.

He looked out at the reservoir. So vast was the waterway that its borders stretched nearly from one end of the park to another, its ten-block horizon disappearing in a fog bank.

Fog?

“Paolo . . . we need to find a boat!”

 

The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir was a forty-foot-deep, 106-acre body of water encircled by a 1.58-mile jogging track and tall chain-link fence. The reservoir’s maintenance shed was located off the bridle path.

Shep kicked open the door. Paolo peered inside with his light. The yellow inflatable raft was hanging from the ceiling, secured to the wooden beams by two pulleys. Shep cut the lines with one swing of his prosthetic arm. Grabbing an oar, he helped Paolo drag the rubber craft outside.

“Over here.” Virgil and Francesca were waiting by the jogging track’s public bathrooms. The old man had pulled a section of fencing loose from where it attached to the edge of the brick facing, allowing them access to the water.

The building’s facade was covered in spray-painted graffiti, representing everything from gang insignias and messages of love to colorful artistic endeavors that would put Peter Max to shame. Appearing along the top of the wall, painted in black letters, was a prophetic message:

 

you are under surveillance.

 

Below that, represented in four-foot-high stylized white letters was a rock fan’s homage to his favorite band:

 

STYX

 

Shep stared at the stylized graffiti, a distant memory tugging at his brain.

“Patrick, we need you.” Virgil and Paolo had pulled back the loose section of fence, allowing Shep to maneuver the raft through the opening and into the water. Paolo climbed down into the boat first, then reached up to assist Francesca and Virgil.

Squeezing through the opening, Shep dragged the fencing back into place and lowered himself into a kneeling position in the stern next to Virgil. He gripped the middle of the oar in his right fist but could not secure the top with the mangled pincer of his prosthetic left arm.

“Allow me, my friend.” Paolo took the oar from Patrick and stroked, guiding the raft away from the reservoir’s northern wall. The water was dark and murky, though noticeably warmer than the frigid night air, the temperature differential the cause of the dense fog bank.

The shoreline gradually disappeared from view, along with the night sky.

Paolo continued paddling, quickly losing all sense of direction. “This isn’t good. I could be taking us in an endless circle.”

Virgil held up his hand. “Listen.”

They heard a crowd cheering somewhere in the distance.

“Head for the sound, Paolo. It will guide you to the southern end of the reservoir.”

Altering their course, he paddled, the sound of the water crisp in the December air, the fog thickening with each stroke.

The smell reached them first, the putrid scent similar to an open sewer.

The bow struck an unseen object. Then another.

Paolo abruptly withdrew the oar. Snatching the lantern from Francesca, he again attempted to light the wick, succeeding on his third try. He held the lamp out over the side, the fog-veiled glow revealing what lay upon the surface. “Mother of God.”

There were thousands of them, floating like human flotsam. Some drifted facedown, most were facing up, their red-rimmed eyes bulging in death, their mottled flesh bloated and pale, their necks festooned with grapefruit-sized purplish black buboes, swollen even more from their immersion in water. Men and women, old and young—the cold water having combined with the plague to disguise their ethnicity, their body compositions determining their ranking within the reservoir. The heaviest among them, being the most buoyant, occupied the surface of the man-made lake. The thin and muscled, unable to float, had been relegated to the mid and deeper waters, along with the infants and children.

Paolo cupped his hand over his wife’s mouth before she could scream. “Close your eyes, look away. Scream, and the soldiers will find us.”

Virgil wiped at cold tears. “Paolo, douse the light and work your oar . . . take us across this river of death.”

“River of death . . . Styx.” The words of the Divine Comedy cracked open another sealed chamber of Shep’s memory, Dante’s hellish prose laid out before him. The water was a dark purplish gray, and we, following its somber undulation, pursued a strange path down to where there lay a marsh at the slope's culmination—

—Styx was the name that swamp bore.

Shep’s eyes widened as the vaccine-created hallucination gripped his mind, the flock of floating corpses spinning in his vision—

—the dead suddenly animating!

Limbs gyrate. Waterlogged hands paw blindly at one another, stripping clothing from skin in the process. Growing steadily more restless, the awakening dead reach out to tug at their neighbors’ hair and gouge their eyes. Several of the more feisty corpses actually propel their ghastly heads from the frigid water, sinking their bared yellowed teeth into another plague victim’s rotting flesh as if they were zombies.

As Shep watches in horror, bizarre flashes of bluish white light ignite randomly from somewhere within the depths, each strobe-like burst revealing haunting glimpses of more plague victims—a submerged army of the dead fighting their way to the surface. Suddenly, Shep finds himself looking out onto a sea of faces—Iraqi faces—all staring at him in judgment, their silence deafening.

“Ignore them, Shepherd, they’re nothing but godless heathens.”

Patrick looks down, stunned to find Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti. The clergyman is floating on his back next to the raft, his body dressed in his long, flowing black cassock, his corpse towed by the boat’s moving current.

“War is hell, Shepherd. Sacrifices had to be made in order to achieve our objectives. We did what was necessary.”

“Necessary . . . for who?”

“Freedom comes with a price.”

“And who pays that price? We killed families . . . entire villages. These people never asked to be bombed and invaded.”

“Whoa there, Sergeant. People? They’re Muslims, scourge of the earth. Bunch of no-good Arabs hell-bent on destroying Western society.”

“You’re wrong. The majority of these people simply wanted to live in peace.”

“No one asked for your opinion of the mission, Sergeant. You were trained to defend America against those who seek to destroy our way of life. Instead, you took the coward’s way out, you cut and ran. In doing so, you shamed your family, you disgraced the uniform . . . but most of all, you betrayed our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus was a man of peace. He’d never support any act of violence.”

“Wake up, Sergeant! America is a Christian nation. One nation, under God.”

“Since when is America a Christian nation? Since when does God need man to fight His holy wars? Invoking God’s name in our military actions does not sanctify violence any more than al-Qaeda proclaiming Jihad. Take a good look at them, Colonel. These are the lives we’ve butchered in God’s name, the people we vilified as an excuse to bomb their cities, the children we’ve slaughtered in order to—”

“Save your speech, traitor. Would you stand by and allow these Islamic extremists to strike our shores again? What kind of an American are you?”

“One who refuses to be your tool any longer. Linking 9/11 with Saddam, weapons of mass destruction, democracy on the march . . . it was all a lie. All you fanatics ever wanted was an excuse to gain control of Iraq’s oil supply. War is nothing more than a cash cow for the military-industrial complex. Who’s next? Iran? Venezuela? Is that all part of God’s plan, too?”

“Who are you to preach to me? We both know why you went to Iraq—you were looking for a target . . . an enemy combatant, someone you could line up in your crosshairs and blow away, reaping sweet revenge. We gave you that opportunity, Sergeant, and this is how you repay us?”

Shep gazes upon the multitude of mottled brown faces staring at him in silence. “You’re right. No one forced me to go. It was my decision, I wanted justice . . . revenge. I killed innocent people, convinced that God was on my side . . . until I took my first life. My actions never brought justice, they only brought more pain and suffering. I allowed my anger to tarnish my soul, and the blame is all mine.”

Another burst of luminescent light appears, this one a spark that ignites directly below the raft, illuminating the faces of the dead. Instead of fading, the light rises, circling Colonel Argenti like a hungry shark.

The clergyman senses the supernal being’s approach. “The Angel of Death! Don’t let him take me, Shepherd . . . in the name of all that’s holy—”

“It’s time, Colonel. It’s time you and I both reaped what we’ve sown.”

“I am an ordained minister . . . an ambassador of Christ our savior!”

The light circles closer, its luminous energy shearing the cassock and undergarments from the clergyman’s body. Philip Argenti screams as his naked form suddenly heaves out of the water onto the raft. His lifeless limbs thrust forward, his dead hands somehow managing to hook themselves around the lapel of Patrick Shepherd’s coat. “I . . . am a man . . . of God!”

“Then go to Him.” Wielding his mangled prosthetic arm like a scythe, Shep slashes Argenti's throat. The colonel flails backward, the gash in his neck spurting black ooze as he plunges back into the water—

—the spectral glow dragging him below the frothing surface with one final, sizzling flash of light.

A thousand Iraqi faces—men, women, and children—close their eyes and sink beneath the corpse-littered surface . . . satisfied.

Wild-eyed, Patrick Shepherd stood in the raft, slashing his steel appendage through the empty fog-ridden night.

“Stop him! He’ll slice through the raft!” Francesca held on to the sides of the roiling vessel, commanding her husband to act.

Virgil reached for Shep’s right hand, squeezing it. “Son, it’s all right. Whatever it was, it’s gone.”

Shep shook the vision loose. Confused, he allowed Virgil to guide him to his seat. The old man turned to Paolo. “He’s all right. Continue on.”

“No . . . this is all wrong. We’re disturbing the holiest of the holies. We shouldn’t have come—”

Francesca took her husband’s hand. “Look at them, Paolo . . . they’re all dead. Your son, on the other hand, he wants out.”

“My son . . .” Returning the oar to the water, he paddled in the direction of the crowd noises.

Virgil placed a hand on Shep’s shoulder. “What did you see? Was it the Reaper?”

“No. I saw people . . . victims of warfare. They rose from below . . . only—”

“Go on.”

“Only I didn’t kill these people. And yet, somehow I felt responsible for their deaths. There was a detached sense of familiarity to everything. Like a bad déjà vu.”

“Accepting responsibility for your actions is the first necessary step in reconnecting with the Light.”

“You’re not hearing me. I didn’t kill thousands of people.”

“Maybe you didn’t kill them in this lifetime.”

“Virgil, I already told you, I don’t believe in the whole reincarnation thing.”

“Whether you believe in it or not doesn’t make it any less true. Our five senses cause us chaos—the misperception that there are no connections. In fact, everything is connected. Déjà vu is a past incarnation experienced by the present. Whatever you did in your prior lives, I suspect that this may be your last chance to make things right again.”

“Make what right? How am I supposed to know what to do?”

“When the time comes, you’ll know. Trust your gut, your instinct. What does your intuition tell you?”

“My intuition?” Shep looked to the south.

The fog thinned as they neared the reservoir’s shoreline. Half a mile away, the night was aglow with the orange haze of a thousand fires.

“My intuition tells me things are about to become a lot worse.”

 

 

 

 

PART 4

Lower Hell

 

 

 

 

SIXTH CIRCLE

The Heretics

"And we our feet directed tow'rds the city, after those holy words all confident. Within we entered without any contest; and I, who inclination had to see what the condition such a fortress holds, soon as I was within, cast round mine eye, and see on every hand an ample plain, full of distress and torment terrible."

—Dante’s Inferno

 

December 21

Central Park

Manhattan

4:11 a.m.

(3 hours, 52 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

 

Their arrival at the southeastern end of the reservoir had presented the journey’s next hurdle, for the fence separating the jogging track from the southern retaining wall offered no exit point or weak link. Paolo continued paddling, following the stone barrier as it circled to the west. Francesca’s light finally revealed a break along the wall—a small boat ramp—the incline partially blocked by a large flatbed truck.

Climbing out first, Paolo dragged the bow of the raft up the cement ramp, then helped his pregnant wife out of the boat.

The truck’s rusted metal flatbed was tilted at a thirty-degree angle to the reservoir, stained in frozen blood. Francesca wrapped her scarf across her face. “They must have used the truck to collect the dead, dumping them right into the water. Why would they do such a thing?”

Paolo peered inside the window of the empty cab. “The more important question is, why did they stop?”

“The plague must have spread so fast, they couldn’t dispose of the dead quickly enough.” Shep searched the night sky. “We need to keep moving, before another drone tracks us down.”

They continued on, following a snow-covered bridle path, the bonfires glowing somewhere up ahead.

 

Central Park West

4:20 a.m.

 

David Kantor made his way south along Central Park West. Gun drawn, he moved in the shadow of stalled vehicles. Cloaked in darkness, he was surrounded by death. It was slumped in the cars and sprawled on the sidewalk, rained from apartment windows to mangle awnings and decorate snow-covered lawns. Every fifteen seconds, he paused to make sure he was not being followed. The paranoia allowed him to stretch his hips and lower back, already aching from hauling his life-support equipment. I’ll never make it to Gavi’s school like this. I need to find another way.

He rested again. His stifling face mask collected a pool of sweat. Pulling open the rubber chin piece, he emptied the excess, his eyes locked in on the bizarre buildings on his right. The Rose Center for Earth and Space cast a diamond-shaped void against the lunar-lit heavens. The Museum of Natural History blotted the night like a medieval castle, its drawbridge guarded by the bronze statue of President Theodore Roosevelt on horseback.

The sight of the Rough Rider brought with it a memory of his youngest daughter’s first visit to the facility. Gavi was only seven. Oren had come along, too, David’s son insisting they skip the train and drive into the city so the boy could listen to the Yankees game on their way home. The day germinated in David’s mind.

Checking the periphery in his night scope, he jogged up the museum steps to the sealed main doors, arguing internally whether he was wasting valuable time.

The doors were locked. He looked around again, determined he was alone, and shot out one of the plate-glass doors with his sidearm.

The museum was dark inside, save for the fading glow coming from an emergency light. David moved quickly through the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall, the deserted entry unnerving. Diverting past the Rose Gallery space exhibit, he searched for a visitor sign he knew was posted somewhere in the dark corridor up ahead.

“There.” He followed the arrow to the parking garage, praying for a small miracle.

The spots reserved for motorcycles were located just past the handicapped row. His heart raced as the beam from his light revealed a Honda scooter and a Harley-Davidson, both vehicles still chained to their posts. He contemplated hot-wiring the scooter, but worried that the vehicle’s engine would draw the attention of the military.

Then he saw the ten-speed bicycle.

 

Central Park

4:23 a.m.

 

The bridle path ran past Summit Rock, the highest elevation in Central Park, before descending into a forest valley. Ahead was Winterdale Arch, a twelve-foot-high sandstone-and-granite underpass buttressed on either side by a retaining wall that extended east and west through the park. Illuminating the underpass were a dozen steel trash barrels, their contents set ablaze.

Beyond the fires, guarding the entrance of the granite tunnel, were a dozen men and women. Self-appointed gatekeepers. Heavily armed. Each wearing a fluorescent orange and yellow vest removed from the back of a deceased construction worker.

A procession of people milled about outside the guarded portal—families, lost souls, streetwalkers, displaced businesspeople, and the indigent—all waiting to be allowed to pass through the Winterdale Arch.

Paolo turned to Virgil. “This is the only way through, unless you want to risk the main roads again. What should we do?”

“Patrick?”

Shep continued watching the night sky, anticipating another aerial assault. “We’re safer in a crowd. Let’s see if they’ll allow us through.”

They approached the last person in line, a big man in his mid-fifties. Despite the frigid temperatures, he was wearing a ski vest over a tee shirt, his bare arms covered in tattoos of the United States Marine Corps. The words: Death Before Dishonor were emblazoned across his upper right biceps. He was holding a woman wrapped in a blanket. From her stiffness and body position, Shep could tell she had cerebral palsy.

“Excuse me—”

“Welcome, brothers, welcome sister. Have you come to witness the glory of God?”

“What glory is there in so much suffering and death?” Shep asked.

“The glory comes from the Second Coming. Isn’t that why you are here?”

Paolo pushed in, his eyes wide with excitement. “Then this really is it? The Rapture?”

“Yes, my friend. The twenty-four elders have assembled. The Virgin Mother herself is said to be inside the park walls, preparing to grant immortality to the chosen among us.”

Paolo crossed himself, trembling. “When the plague was first announced, I had a feeling . . . How do we get inside?”

“They’re bringing us up in small groups. They need to determine who is clean.”

“We’re clean.” Paolo pulled Francesca to his side. “No plague, you can check us.”

The big man smiled “No, brother, by ‘clean’ I am referring to the soul. Everyone must be escorted inside, at which point the worthy will be separated from the heretics. No sinner shall be granted access by the Trinity.”

Shep looked to Virgil, who shook his head.

“What about the plague?” Francesca asked “Aren’t you afraid of being contaminated?”

“Sister, it was Dis that summoned Jesus’s return.”

“Dis?”

“The disease,” the woman said, straining to adjust her blanket so she could see. “Vern, explain it to them the way Pastor Wright explained it to us at the mission.”

“My apologies. We’re the Folleys, by the way. I’m Vern, this is my wife, Susan Lynn. We flew in Saturday night from Hanford, California, for a two-day medical conference. We were scheduled to fly home this afternoon, only they shut down the city before we could leave. We wandered the streets for hours, somehow ending up at the mission.”

“It was God’s will,” Susan Lynn chimed in.

“Amen. When we arrived, Pastor Wright was telling hundreds of people that he had just spoken with the Virgin Mother. She had incarnated herself as a Christian woman. The Virgin told him that Manhattan had been selected as ground zero for Revelations because of all its wickedness.”

“What made him believe she was the Virgin Mary?” Francesca asked.

“There can be no doubt, sister. Pastor Wright actually witnessed a miracle when the Virgin cured the infected. Seeing the pastor, the Holy Mother instructed him to gather his flock in Central Park for the Rapture, that Jesus would be coming before the dawn. The Virgin would determine who would be saved and who would be cast out into Hell.”

Paolo turned to Virgil, tears in his eyes. “Then it’s true, this is the End of Days.”

The old man gave him a wry look. “There is spirituality, Paolo, and there is religious dogma. The two are rarely compatible.”

Vern’s expression darkened. “Stay your tongue, old man. Any words perceived as blasphemy may burn you and your flock.”

“It’s time!” A bank security guard wearing a fluorescent orange vest waved his handgun at the crowd. “Single file, stay together. If the Furies ask you a question, answer honestly. Each of you will be instructed where to go once you reach the amphitheater.”

The crowd jostled one another, several pushing past Shep to secure their place in line. “Vern, who are the Furies?”

“It’s Judgment Day, fella, and the Furies are the judges. All three Furies are women personally selected by the Virgin Mary.”

“But what is the Furies’ purpose?”

“To administer the Lord’s vengeance. One of the guards told me they’re especially hard on anyone who raped or killed women and children. Once the Furies begin their process of vengeance, they won’t stop, not even if the guilty party repents.”

The crowd moved quickly through the arch, the armed detail signaling for Shep and his entourage to join the line.

Paolo pulled Shep aside. “No hallucinations. You need to find a way to control yourself. Francesca and I must be among those chosen for salvation.” Before Shep could argue, the Italian and his pregnant wife fell in line behind the Folleys, trailing the couple through the Winterdale Arch.

Shep and Virgil looked at one another before joining the moving herd. They passed through the granite tunnel, following the bridle path up a steep slush-covered hill, accompanied by a howling wind that bit deep into their exposed flesh.

Patrick was operating on autopilot. His feet were numb from the cold, his legs moving just enough to keep pace with the faceless bodies in front of him. He felt lost, physically and spiritually, as if he had been transported into a waking, disorienting nightmare.

This is a wasted effort, an intentional walk before the manager visits the pitcher’s mound, takes the baseball, and pulls you from the game. Just lie down now. Lie down in the snow and the cold of night and die. How bad can it be?

“Ow . . . damn it!” Lost in thought, he had walked headfirst into an immovable object. It was a bronze statue, Romeo caressing Juliet in a loving embrace. Shep stared at the immortalized figures, his heart yearning again for his soul mate. Was that supposed to be a sign?

“Let’s go! Keep moving!”

The path circled through pitch-darkness, sending hands to grope the brick facing of a large building. Another sixty feet, and the forest suddenly yielded to a spectacle of religious fervor gyrating across the Great Lawn.

The assembled were everywhere, their numbers revealed by the glow of tangerine flames dancing from a thousand torches. It was an orgy of faith—forty thousand lost souls—all competing to gain entry into Heaven. Some scrambled atop the timeworn crags of Vista Rock, others pushed forward in random tides of desperation, drawn to the base of Belvedere Castle, the Gothic mansion rising above an undulating sea of humanity . . . the modern-day equivalent of the Israelites waiting for Moses’s return from Mount Sinai.

The building Shep and the others had just circled was Delacorte Theater. The horseshoe-shaped arena that had once hosted Shakespeare in the Park now served as the pit for a raging bonfire. The remains of a large vinyl banner hung over the amphitheater stage, its city of n.y. presents disney on ice message purposely torn to read:

city of dis

Situated on a blanketed perch of rock, silhouetted by the crackling bonfire that raged warmth at their backs were three women, each clad in a black robe taken from the quarters of a circuit court judge.

The “Fury” seated on the left was Jamie Megaera. Five-foot-one-inch tall, endowed with a thirty-eight-inch D-cup, the twenty-five-year-old single mom had given up custody of her daughter three years earlier to pursue an acting career in the Big Apple. The closest she had come to performing onstage was dancing nude from the birdcage hanging from the strip club where she worked.

Jamie’s identical twin sister, Terry Alecto, was seated on the right. As a high-class prostitute, Terry earned three times more money than her sibling, $500 a trick. Like her sister, she was also separated from her family, her husband serving a nine-year prison sentence for promoting the prostitution of his wife (Terry having been a minor at the time of his arrest). The twin had no qualms about her line of work. In fact, she saw herself as providing a service, just like the local hairdresser or manicurist. She had had sex three times since she first noticed the swollen buboes on her neck.

Situated between the twins was sixty-five-year-old Patricia Demeule-Ross Tisiphone.

A product of alcoholic parents, Patricia had married when she was seventeen and spent thirty-nine years in an abusive relationship. Her daughter was addicted to pain pills, brought on by the suicide of her husband. Her sister and best friend, Marion, had moved in with Patricia after finally divorcing her own alcoholic husband, who had physically and verbally abused her since she was twenty. The two elderly women had been subletting an apartment to the twins, having “adopted” the girls as granddaughters.

By three in the afternoon, all four had been stricken with plague.

Feverish, infected by painful buboes and coughing up mouthfuls of blood, the four women had made their way to Central Park to “die in peace with nature.” Marion had gone first, succumbing in front of her favorite spot, the Bethesda Fountain’s Angel of the Water sculpture.

Patricia and the twins lay dying by her side, all three holding one another, trembling in the cold and pain but not in fear.

Pastor Jeramie Wright had administered last rites from a safe distance when the former biker had observed a woman approach the fallen females. Clad in white, she knelt on the ground and kissed all of the infected women on their open mouths, inducing them to swallow her “spit.”

Within minutes, the three dying women were sitting up. Reborn.

Having witnessed the miracle, Pastor Wright approached the woman in white. “Who are you? What is your name?”

“I am Mary the Virgin. Baby Jesus has been born. Assemble the flock, for tonight, Revelations shall come.”

Word of the Virgin’s miracle had spread quickly. By nightfall, tens of thousands of frightened, abandoned New Yorkers were flocking to Central Park to be saved.

“Each one of you shall bow before the Furies, so that they may determine your place at the Rapture. You . . . state your name and occupation.”

A tall woman with an hourglass figure bowed her head. “Linda Bohm. I’m visiting from California. I work as an assistant buyer at Barnes and Noble—”

“Why are you here?” the older Fury asked

“I was visiting a friend. We were on a bus. One of the passengers was coughing. None of us knew about the plague.”

“You’ve got Dis?”

She nodded, wiping back tears. “Can the Virgin cure me?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think so.” The twin on the right brushed her long, wavy, brown hair, smacking her gum. “Bohm sounds like a Jewish name. Linda doesn’t believe in the Virgin Mother, and that makes Linda a heretic. The Virgin Mother specifically told us to purge all heretics into the arena.”

“Are you a Jew?” asked the twin on the left.

“No. I’m . . . Episcopalian.”

“She’s lying. Mother Patricia?”

The older woman scrutinized the frightened tourist. “It’s so hard to decide. Still, I suppose it’s best to err on the side of caution. Toss the heretic into the flames.”

Shep’s eyes widened in horror as two orange-vested guards dragged the screaming California woman toward the amphitheater. Before he could react, a third guard doused her with gasoline and she was coldly heaved into the mouth of the conflagration, her flailing body igniting in an ethereal white flame.

Shep swooned, the black smoke rising from the pyre—not over the amphitheater but over a brick enclave surrounded by wood barracks and barbed wire herding living skeletons wearing striped uniforms and despair.

Auschwitz . . .

“Who’s next? You . . . one-armed man. Tell us your name.”

Shep shook the vision of the Nazi death camp from his mind, only to find himself staring at the voluptuous twins. Wind swirled around the jagged rock, whipping up the conflagration—

—loosening Jamie Megaera’s and Terry Alecto’s outer garments. The twins smile seductively at him, exposing their ample breasts as they stand to perform, gyrating in place.

“Come closer, Patrick Shepherd.”

“Yes, Patrick. Come closer so that we might taste you.”

He takes a step closer—

—his face battered by a blinding gust of sleet that whipped through the park, dousing torches and swirling bonfires, sending the Furies crawling down from their perch to seek cover.

Thunder rolled in the heavens, followed by a blast of trumpets that cut through the night like a scalpel. Having been officially summoned, the swell of forty thousand followers pushed forward as one, crowding the base of Belvedere Castle.

Virgil yelled at Paolo, shouting above the wind to be heard. “Find us a car, anything that’s mobile! Patrick and I will watch over your wife!”

“No! It’s the Second Coming! I need to be here!”

“Remain here, and your son shall never see the dawn. Tell him, Francesca!”

She looked at the certainty in Virgil’s eyes. “Paolo, do as he says!”

“Francesca?”

“Go! We’ll meet you at the 79^th Street Transverse.”

Unsure, Paolo looked around, got his bearings, then pushed through the crowd, heading for the stretch of tarmac known as West Drive.

A slice of spotlight cut across the Great Lawn’s periphery. For a moment, Patrick feared it was an Army helicopter, but the beam was coming from atop the Delacorte Theater. It settled on a lone figure standing on the third-story balcony of Belvedere Castle—a pale woman, dressed in a hooded white robe.

Loudspeakers crackled to life, powered by two backup generators. Cheers rose across the Great Lawn as the white-clad figure took the microphone from its stand to address her flock.

“Then the seven angels with the seven trumpets blew their mighty blasts. And one-third of the people on Earth were killed by this mighty plague. But the people who did not die still refused to turn from their evil deeds . . . refusing to repent their murders or their witchcraft or their thefts.”

The woman in white retracted the garment’s hood, revealing herself to her followers. Her frightening appearance elicited gasps from those standing closest to the castle’s foundation. A moment later, her image materialized on the theater’s big screen for all to see.

Beneath a shock of greasy candy-apple red hair was a face plagued hideously pale. The tip of her nose was blotched grayish purple, matching the circles beneath her olive green eyes. Scythe had rotted her teeth and gums black, and her psychotic expression was more demon than deliverer.

Virgil pulled Shep closer. “Patrick, I’ve seen this woman. She was in the VA hospital. They were moving her into an isolation ward.”

“Isolation?” Shep stared at the figure, recalling his last conversation with Leigh Nelson as she dragged him up the stairwell to the VA hospital’s roof. “One of my patients, a redheaded woman we had in isolation, she released a man-made plague . . .”

Mary Louise Klipot moved to the edge of the Victorian balcony, the crowd silencing itself to listen to the woman’s words. “Babylon has fallen. Our once-great city has fallen because she was seduced by the nations of the world. Babylon the great . . . now mother of all prostitutes and obscenities in the world, hideout of demons and evils spirits, a nest for filthy buzzards, a den for filthy beasts. And the rulers of the world who took part in her immoral acts and enjoyed her great luxury will suffer as the smoke rises again from her charred remains . . . the heretics who sought to destroy her . . . who sought to destroy America shall suffer God’s wrath.”

Yellow-tinted lights illuminated the second tier of the castle directly below Mary’s perch, revealing three hastily constructed gallows. Lined up in rows, held at gunpoint, were several hundred people, their wrists bound behind their backs, their mouths duct-taped shut. Gays and lesbians, Muslims and Hindus. Old and young, men, women, and children . . . all predestined to be sacrificed . . . at least in Mary Klipot’s jumbled thoughts.

“Bring forth the first group of heretics!”

The first three people in line—a Hindu family—were segregated from the condemned.

Manisha Patel convulsed in the grasp of hooded men adorned in the robes of the archdioceses. She screamed through her gag. Her knees buckled, her bridled angst sending her body writhing in contortions as she witnessed men grab her daughter, Dawn, and forcibly shove the girl’s head through the noose on her right.

The rope on her left was occupied by her husband, Pankaj, who was being wrestled into submission by four men dressed in religious robes.

The crystal dangling around Manisha’s neck sparked with static electricity as her own head was forcibly thrust through an awaiting noose. The rope was tightened around her jaw, forcing her up on her toes in order to breathe. “God, please spare my child. Spare my child. Spare my child!”

As Manisha moved, her hearing dulled, muffling the voice of the redheaded witch as she drove the crowd into a feverish frenzy. Barely conscious, the necromancer grunted each painful breath—an arctic inhalation that burned her throat while causing her nose to run. Her entire body trembled as she danced on the rope, waiting . . . waiting—

“Stop!”

Manisha opened her eyes, her dilated pupils too blurred with tears to focus.

She found him on the big screen. He was standing atop the third tier directly above their gallows, his face partially concealed within the dark hood, his right fist holding the witch upright by her hair, his bloodstained scythe poised at her neck.

Patrick Shepherd dragged Mary Klipot past the two skinhead “elders,” who lay bleeding on the stone deck, and leaned over the microphone to speak, the blinding spotlight glistening on his steel prosthetic arm. “And then another angel appeared . . . the Angel of Death. And the Grim Reaper said, Release those innocent people now, or I’ll cut off this ugly bitch’s head and send her and the rest of you straight to Hell.”

 

The moon slipped behind storm clouds, once more casting him from West Drive’s snow-covered tarmac into darkness. Unseen branches tore at his clothing and face, unseen roots caused him to stumble and fall. He was hopelessly lost, separated from his wife, exiled from deliverance. Regaining his feet, he groped his way forward another eight paces—

—only to run into fencing along the edge of a partially frozen wetland. The impasse unleashed a wave of panic. His bearings gone, his faith diminishing rapidly, he knelt in the snow and prayed, more an act of desperation than of salvation.

The wind died down. Then he heard it . . . the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar.

Wiping back tears, he followed the sound, finding his way through rows of American Elms before coming to a clearing that intersected with a vaguely familiar path.

The man was in his forties, seated alone on one of a dozen benches situated around a circular mosaic. Oily brown hair hung past his shoulders. A gaunt pale face, framed by long sideburns. The signature wire-rimmed glasses were slightly tinted. He was wearing worn jeans, a denim jacket over a black tee shirt, and appeared not the least bit concerned about the cold. The guitar rested on one knee. He was measuring each chord as he felt his way through an acoustic rendition of a song recorded nearly four decades earlier:

“. . . playing those mind games forever, some kinda druid dudes . . . lifting the veil. Doing the mi . . . ind guerrilla. Some call it magic . . . the search for the grail. Love is the answer, and you know that—for sure. Love is a flower . . . you got to let it . . . you got to let grow.”

John Lennon looked up at Paolo Salvatore Minos and smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, lad. Truth is, I thought about singing “Imagine,” but that would have been a bit clichéd, don’t you think?”

Paolo knelt by the Imagine mosaic, now visible in the returning moonlight, his body shaking with adrenaline. “Are you real?”

The deceased Beatle tuned a string. “Just an image in space and time.”

“I meant . . . are you a ghost, or is it this damn vaccine?”

“Don’t believe in ghosts, don’t believe in vaccines either.” A roar grew louder in the distance. “Listen to them . . . murderous bastards. Praying for Jesus to arrive on his white steed like some rock star . . . as if Jesus would have any part of that chaos.”

“They’re not sinners. They’re just looking to be saved.”

“Yes, but salvation, according to John the bloody Apostle, is a right reserved only for Christians. Ironically, that would exclude Jesus, too. Toss Rabbi Jesus into the fire pit on the right, lads, the Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and the rest of the lot into Satan’s pit on the left. Once they’re gone, we can reserve the infighting strictly among the Catholics and Protestants, the Lutherans, Episcopalians, Pentecostals, Mormons, Baptists . . . who am I forgetting? Wait, I know, we can call for another war in the Holy Land, this one to sort out whose church is the real church of God.”

Paolo grabbed his head. “No, I can’t hear this . . . not now, not on Judgment Day. You were such a hero to me, but this . . . this is heresy.”

“Aye. And be sure to count Rabbi Jesus among the heretics.”

“Stop . . . please!”

“Paolo, listen to me. We’re all God’s children. All of us. The real sin is man’s refusal to become what we are. Spirituality isn’t about religion, it’s about loving God. Two thousand years of bickering, persecution, hatred, and war, all caused by some silly competition over who Daddy loves best. All we have to do is love unconditionally. When each man becomes his brother’s keeper . . . that’s when everything changes. It’s not too late. Look at me. I grew up angry, then I found my purpose.”

“Your music?”

“No, lad. Music was merely a channel, a means of delivering the message.” He strummed a chord. “Love is the answer . . . Sorry, I’m a bit off-key.”

“John, I need to know . . . is this it? Is this the end?”

The former activist put down the guitar. “Destruction is a self-fulfilling path, but so is peace. Murder has become a billion-dollar industry, with greed and selfishness leading mankind toward oblivion. It must be stopped. As a Christian taught to believe out of fear, you need to decide what it is you want more—the destruction of the world and the so-called promise of salvation, or the peace, love, and fulfillment that transforms every human being on the planet.”

“But how can one man . . . I mean, I’m not you.”

“You mean you’re not an insecure, egomaniacal, angry musician who abused drugs and alcohol?”

“Come on, John. You risked your career . . . your life to speak out against the Vietnam War. You mobilized millions, you saved lives—”

“And how many lives have you saved by feeding the hungry? If history has taught us anything, lad, it’s that one man, one voice, one mantra can change the world. Now tell me, what is it you really need?”

Paolo wiped the tears streaming down his face. “I need . . . a car.”

John Lennon smiled. “Follow the path across West Park Avenue to my old building, the Dakota. There’s a parking garage next door . . .”

 

With the spotlight in his eyes he could not see the crowd, but he could feel their negative energy, their hatred. For a fleeting moment Patrick Shepherd was on the mound at Yankee Stadium, forty thousand hometown fans booing him unmercifully.

A thousand feet overhead, the night lens of the Reaper drone’s camera zoomed in on his face.

“Listen to me! Those people . . . they’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Liar!” Tim Burkland was standing on the back of a WABC radio van loaded with speakers. The former punk rocker and talk-show blogger was a self-described “polemic journalist,” his radical views, wrapped in religious dogma, helping to secure a New York cable show in which he battled “the lies, injustice, and cruelty of American socialism and the systematic destruction of the Church.”

“You listen, freak. Christ died for our sins, for our imperfections. Jews need to be perfected. Homosexuals need to be perfected. Muslims need to be perfected. Not all Muslims may be terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslim. Allowing these people to exist within our Christian society is a sin against our Lord and Savior!”

Burkland’s supporters roared, chanting, “Hang the heretics! Hang the heretics!”

The redhead squirmed in Shep’s grip, turning to face him. “And He shall destroy all who have caused destruction on Earth.”

“Shut up.” Shep yanked her head away from the microphone, catching a whiff of her foul, diseased breath. “All of this hatred, all of this negativity . . . it’s fueling the plague. Hundreds of thousands have already died, none of us may live to see the sunrise. Every one of us here has wronged our fellowman. Is this really the last act you want to commit on Earth before you’re to be judged? Whose side would Jesus defend if He were here? Would He support the hatred spewing from the mouths of these false prophets of the entertainment world who desecrate His message of peace so they can earn millions in book royalties and over the airwaves? Would Jesus be so easily deceived that He would stand by and allow innocent children to be hanged? Mark my words—if one of these people dies tonight by your action or inaction, then all shall be judged!”

The crowd grew silent, contemplating Shep’s words.

Dozens of men and women wearing fluorescent orange vests approached from either side of the balcony, aiming their guns. Pastor Jeramie Wright stepped out from the group, the big man pushing his followers’ shotgun barrels toward the ground. “Strong words, son. It’ll mean nothing if you harm the Virgin Mary. Let her go.”

“This woman is not the incarnation of the Virgin Mary. She’s Typhoid Mary, the one who unleashed the plague.”

“Now that’s a lie. I witnessed the miracle myself.”

“What miracle?”

“I saw her spit into the mouths of the inflicted and cure them.”

The armed men raised their shotguns.

Shep tightened his prosthetic arm around the redhead’s chest, freeing his right hand so he could pat her down.

“Rape! Murder!”

The crowd surged forward.

“Stop, or I’ll slit her throat!” He pressed the blade of his mangled prosthetic until he drew a ring of blood around her neck, halting the armed men’s advance—

—while his right hand felt for the plastic vials located in an internal pocket of the redhead’s hospital robe. Removing several, he tossed one to Pastor Wright, holding the rest up to the crowd. “This is what your so-called Virgin Mother used to cure the inflicted—plague vaccine. The sickness is called Scythe. This woman helped develop it for the government, then she unleashed it in Manhattan. And now you want to worship this murderer?”

The mob on the balcony looked to Pastor Wright—unsure.

A murmur rose from the thousands watching the big screen.

Her moment of transformation stolen, Mary Klipot struggled to free herself, growling at Shep like a rabid dog—

—while on the balcony below, Manisha Patel strained to remain on her toes, the rope’s friction peeling away the skin along her throat.

A few catcalls rose from the crowd. “Give us the murderer!”

“Give us the vaccine!”

Shep reached beneath his overcoat, pulling out the wooden case. “You want the vaccine? Here it is!” He flung the case into the crowd, then turned to face Pastor Wright and his followers. “There’s more in her pocket—you deal with it.” He shoved the redhead toward the security detail—

—as Tim Burkland and his followers reached the second-floor gallows directly below his balcony, the radical talk-show host intent on hanging the roped victims himself.

“No!” Patrick Shepherd jumped down from the third-story ledge, landing feet first on the wooden gallows. He swung his steel appendage wildly toward Burkland and his mob, backing them away—

—while on the ground, thousands of plague-infected men and women tore into one another in an attempt to grab the wooden box.

And then all hell broke loose.

The heavens bellowed, the frozen ground reverberating beneath the sonic rumble generated by five turbine jet engine Air Tractors. The industrial crop dusters rolled overhead in a standard inverted-V formation a mere two thousand feet above the park. The crowd never saw the planes or their dispersing payload—a partially frozen mist laden with carbon dioxide, glycerine, diethylene glycol, bromine, and an array of chemical and atmospheric stabilizers.

The fighting ceased, all eyes gazing at the heavens as the gas elixir mixed with the moist air, causing a chain reaction. Frozen CO2 and bromine molecules expanded rapidly, creating a dense, swirling reddish brown cloud that coagulated as it sank, reaching neutral buoyancy a mere 675 feet above Manhattan.

To the amped up crowd, the Rapture had arrived. Thousands already swooning with fever collapsed and fainted. Those still conscious dropped to their knees in fear.

The noose around Manisha’s throat loosened, the sliced rope falling across her shoulders. She bent over, wheezing, as Shep cut through her duct-tape bonds, freeing her arms.

Daughter and husband rushed to her side, the family weeping and hugging one another in an emotionally spent embrace, the kind that comes only from death’s reprieve.

Shep grabbed Tim Burkland by his coat collar, dragging the radical TV host to his feet. The blade of his mangled steel pincer pressed alongside the man’s Adam’s apple, drawing blood.

“Please don’t! I was wrong. I’m asking for absolution.”

“I’m not God, asshole.”

“You’re the Angel of Death . . . the Grim Reaper. You have the power to spare me.”

“You want to live? Free these people—every one of them.”

“Right away! Thank you . . . bless you!” Burkland crawled off—

—as an explosion of white-hot pain stole Patrick Shepherd’s thoughts in a frothing wave of delirium—the blade of the axe buried deep inside his left deltoid, tearing muscle and nerve endings before being blunted by the coupling of his steel appendage. Crying out, he collapsed to his knees in agony, his body wracked in spasms, the wound gushing blood.

The encapsulated night sky ignited to the east and north, turning what was left of the heavens into a rose-colored aurora. The military flares illuminated the face of Patrick’s attacker, who stood over him, the axe poised above her forehead, the blade dripping his blood.

“And the first angel blew his trumpet, and hail and fire, mixed with blood were thrown down upon the earth!”

Shep’s eyes widened—

—as Mary Klipot’s red hair thickens into coiling serpents, her eyes pooling with blood until the overflow pours down her stonelike face, the Medusa screeching at him.

Paralyzed in shock, Shep remained frozen in place as the axe plunged toward his skull—

—its wooden shaft intercepted by Pankaj Patel, who tore the weapon loose from Mary Klipot’s hands. “Begone, witch, before I chop off your ugly head and feed it to the ducks!”

As if tossed from a trance, Mary stumbled backward, then dashed from the gallows, disappearing down the stone stairwell.

Manisha Patel knelt by Shep. “Pankaj, he’s in shock. Look at his arm. She cut clear down to the bone.”

Dawn Patel gathered strips of torn duct tape, the ten-year-old attempting to seal the gushing eight-inch-long wound. “Mom, hold that in place while I wrap his shoulder with my scarf.”

An old man with long, silvery white hair tied in a loose ponytail bounded out of the open stairwell. “Patrick, we have to go, the military’s coming.”

“He can’t hear you,” Manisha said, her hands covered in blood. “He’s in shock.”

Virgil looked at the Patels, his blue eyes kind behind the tinted teardrop glasses. “We have a car waiting for us on the other side of this castle. Can you get him on his feet?”

“This man saved our lives, I’d carry him through Hell if I had to.” Pankaj slid his left shoulder beneath Shep’s good arm, hoisting him off the ground. Manisha wrapped the scarf tightly around the duct-tape bandage, then assisted her husband in carrying the unconscious one-armed man down the Victorian temple’s steps.

They exited Belvedere Castle to the south by Vista Rock, where Francesca was waiting. “Virgil, what happened to Patrick?”

“He’ll survive. Where’s Paolo?”

They turned as gunfire erupted to the north.

“Francesca?”

“He’s down below, on the 79^th Street Transverse. This way.”

The two black military Hummers bounded across the Great Lawn, their four-wheel-drive vehicle with its bulletproof tires tearing up the snow-covered softball diamonds. Turret-mounted guns spit lead-laced tracer fire above the crowd, scattering the multitudes like bleach sprayed upon a fire ant’s nest.

Major Steve Downey was up front in the lead vehicle, relaying instructions from the Reaper drone’s crew to the second Hummer. “He’s leaving the castle, heading south. Head southeast past the Obelisk and Turtle Pond. We’ll head west around the castle, trapping him at the 79th Street bridge.”

In order to create an uninterrupted natural flow of lakes, streams, glades, woodlands, and lawns, Central Park’s engineers had had to sink the roads that crossed the venue so that they actually ran below the landscape. Their biggest challenge had been the 79^th Street Transverse, a section of road that connected the Upper West Side with the Upper East Side at East 79^th Street. To submerge the street meant carving a tunnel out of Vista Rock, the remains of an ancient mountain that became the foundation of Belvedere Castle.

Completed in January 1861, the rock tunnel was 141 feet long, 18 feet high, and 40 feet wide. To access the transverse from inside the park, pedestrians descended a hidden stairway by the 79^th Street bridge, which overlooked the subterranean roadway.

A swarm of humanity pushed, prodded, and shoved past Francesca in the darkness as she led Virgil and the Hindu family carrying Shep away from Belvedere Castle and through the Shakespeare rock garden. Disoriented, swallowed by the fleeing masses, she quickly lost her way.

Flares exploded in the distance. The pink glare illuminated the surreal brown ceiling of clouds, the surreal light revealing the 79^th Street bridge. Feeling her way along the stone wall, Francesca located the 150-year-old niche and stairwell. Reaching for the iron gate, she was shocked to find it padlocked. “No . . . no!” Francesca yanked hard on the shiny new combination lock, unable to free it from its rusted hardware.

The roar of the military vehicles grew louder, drawing Patrick Shepherd from his stupor. He was leaning against a stone wall covered in ivy. Through a haze of pain, he gazed at the ten-year-old brown-skinned girl perched three steps above him. He blinked away tears, unsure if what he was seeing was real.

Hovering over Dawn Patel was a spirit. The luminescent blue apparition appeared to be playing with the girl’s braids as it whispered into her ear.

Pankaj Patel ushered the pregnant woman aside, his right hand wielding a rock.

“Dad, wait, you’ll only jam it. Let me, I can do it.” The girl grabbed her father’s wrist, attempting to stop him from smashing the lock.

“Dawn, we don’t have time—”

“Let the girl try.”

All heads turned to Patrick, who was now standing on wobbly legs.

“Go ahead, kid. Open the gate.”

Dawn slipped past her father. She spun the tumbler several times, her ear to the lock as she slowly turned the numbered dial, the spirit clearly guiding her.

Headlights appeared behind them, the military vehicles within a hundred yards.

With a metallic click, the lock’s shackle miraculously popped open.

“You did it!” Pankaj hugged his daughter.

“No time for that.” Francesca pushed the iron gate open, its rusted hinges squealing in protest. Carefully, the pregnant woman made her way down a winding set of stone steps to 79^th Street and a white Dodge Caravan, parked on the street below.

Paolo saw his wife and hurried to assist her. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“We’re being chased. Get in the car and drive—wait for the others!”

Manisha and her husband helped Patrick down the steps, followed by Dawn and Virgil. They climbed inside the van, Paolo accelerating east into the darkness, using only the parking lights to guide him through the 79^th Street tunnel.

The two military Hummers skidded to a halt by the 79^th Street bridge. Receiving instructions through the communicator in his mask, Major Downey quickly located the concealed stairwell leading down to the 79^th Street Transverse. “Damn it all!”

The iron gate was sealed shut . . . as if it had been welded in place.