HOMELAND: Falling Down (Part 1 of the HOMELAND Series) Page 9

  In a statement released afterward, the administration said that these changes were a part of its predecessor’s ongoing pledge to provide ‘the best and most trustworthy leadership to our men and women in uniform.’ The statement went on to say that this program, dubbed ‘Commitment to Excellence’ will make our military stronger and improve readiness, ending with the words, ‘Given the events of the last few days, readiness and strength are exactly what are needed to meet and defeat the threats we face today both at home and abroad, and overcome the challenges yet to come.’

  Opponents and conspiracy theorists accuse the President of conducting some sort of political purge of the military reminiscent of Stalin….

  Blah, blah, blah.

  The girl looked up and complained, “I’m hungry!”

  “Let’s go out! What would you like? Chinese? Italian? Indian? Or we could get exotic and try some Ethiopian food.”

  The girl put her phone down. “Are you kidding? It’s freezing out there!”

  “Yes, it’s autumn in New York, not summer in the south of France. Come on. The crisp air will be invigorating.”

  “Order in.”

  Eduardo sighed. “Delivery it is, then.” He looked at a menu pinned with a magnet to his fridge. “The hotel next door has a Mediterranean restaurant. It specializes in Greek food and grilled fish.”

  She said, “Chicken nuggets with macaroni and cheese. Organic only.”

  “They serve Greek food, not fast food.”

  She repeated, “Nuggets. Mac ‘n cheese. Organic.”

  Eduardo muttered under his breath, “How old are you?” and dialed the restaurant. He decided on a nice souvlaki plate for himself.

  After dinner, Eduardo stood and stretched his aching back, feeling the tightness in his limbs from the long flight and the melee at the park. His thoughts turned to Angie.

  I shouldn’t have let her go with me to the protest. I knew better.

  He walked into the next room and dialed.

  “Angie! Hey, it’s Eddie. How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little groggy. The hospital wanted me to stay tonight. You can guess how that went over.”

  Eddie laughed. “I can imagine. Those poor doctors didn’t have a chance.”

  “I might go in to the office later. I’m already sick of sitting around my apartment.”

  “Don’t push it. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “It’ll take more than a concussion to get me dow—”

  The line went dead.

  “Hello? Angie? Are you there?”

  His date called to him from the living room, “I just lost service.” She waved the device around like a Geiger counter in search of radiation. “Can’t get a signal.” She looked around, seeing the apartment for the first time. She put the phone down and sighed as if suddenly bored. “Are we gonna screw or what?”

  Eduardo thought a moment then picked up the land line and dialed the lobby.

  “Hi, this is Eduardo Garcia from upstairs. I need a cab. Five minutes? Great. Thanks.”

  He hung up.

  “Where are we going?” the girl asked.

  “We aren’t going anywhere. You are going anywhere in the city you like. My treat.”

  He picked up her coat and put it over her shoulders as he prodded her to the door.

  He said, “Thanks for a nice evening. It was…nice.”

  “So we’re not…”

  “I’m a little tired.” Eduardo walked her out the door. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

  He backpedaled into his apartment and shut the door, feeling like a creepy, dirty old man. He pulled a chair to the picture window and poured himself a scotch, wondering if that girl was old enough to drink.

  He sat and watched the cold electric fire of city lights. He felt like a tiger in a cage. He wasn’t tired. Jet lag made sure of that. Maybe some exercise would help. The hotel next door also had a bar. As good a reason as any to stretch his legs. He took the stairs down. It felt good to get blood flowing again.

  Eduardo entered the hotel lobby and found an empty seat at the bar. “Is this seat taken?” he asked a well-dressed man about his age at the next stool.

  “Nope. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.” Eduardo ordered an imported beer and looked at the blank TV screen above the bar. “What gives? I was hoping to watch some ESPN.”

  “It’s broken. I already asked,” his bar mate said with a slur. He’d obviously been drinking a while.

  Eduardo didn’t usually strike up conversations with strangers, but it beat counting the bottles behind the bar. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Eduardo.”

  The stranger shook it. “Chaz.”

  “You here on business?” Eduardo thought the guy looked too mellow to be a New Yorker.

  “Yup. You?”

  It was nice not to be recognized for once. “Just passing through.” Eduardo took a swig of his beer. “What business you in?”

  “Finance. I flew in last week to help my firm figure out what the hell’s happening on Wall Street. My wife came, but the kids are back home in San Francisco.”

  “What did you find out?”

  He looked around and said in a low voice, “It’s worse than everybody thinks. The house of cards is falling as we speak. To make things worse, I have tickets for a nine-thirty flight back to San Fran tomorrow morning, but it’s cancelled now that all the flights are grounded. We can’t even rent a car to go home because the interstates are closed.”

  “They’ll get things moving soon. Always do.”

  Chaz shook his head. “We’re trapped.” He sighed. “And we’re at economic ground zero.” He retreated back into his beer.

  Eduardo eased away from the drunken finance executive. This night was going from bad to worse. He wondered if Angie was still up. It was past eleven, but she was a night owl, probably going crazy cooped up in that apartment.

  He smiled at the thought. I’ll give her a call.

  He pulled out the cell phone she gave him. No signal. He whacked it on the bar top. It didn’t help.

  So much for that idea.

  Eduardo took it as a sign that he should go back to his apartment before things got any worse.

  He returned to his seat in the sky, not bothering to turn the lights on. He preferred to bask in the glow of the world outside. He caught site of his reflection in the massive window, a mirage floating in the darkness above the busy streets. His only companion.

  You again.

  Loneliness was a part of the job, the price to be paid for the freedom to chase the sound of the guns the world over. Moments like this frightened him more than firefights. Warzones were black and white. They drew clear lines between winners and losers, hunter and prey, the living and the dead. The quiet was different. It gave him time to think, to regret, to feel the sting of being alone. Always alone. Totally and unbearably alone.

  He raised his glass to the phantom in the window.

  “Cheers.”

  He took a long, slow swig of scotch.

  The city outside blinked for an instant, then again. The lights went off a third time and didn’t come back on. The beep of a backup battery in the next room told him his power was out as well.

  “Great.”

  Eduardo checked the time on his phone. Midnight. It was Election Day. This was supposed to be his big day.

  Just my luck.

  He finished the tumbler of scotch and fell asleep staring into the darkness.

  5

  HANK

  “Hurry!” a strange voice called.

  “I am!” another replied.

  Who is that? Hank looked around, but saw only darkness.

  “C’mon!” Distant voices reached again through the gloom to Hank’s consciousness.

  He awakened slowly, his head throbbing, his ears ringing, his body freezing.

  “Quit screwin’ around and get the guns!” A deep voice said.

  “I’m getti
ng’ the belt too. He don’t need it no more,” replied the voice of a younger man.

  Hank felt something tug at his waist. He was still buckled into the squad car, but something was wrong. He could feel the cold on his skin and hear the wind in the trees as if the car wasn’t there.

  “C’mon dammit!” the young man complained as the tugging quickened.

  Hank felt his seatbelt unlatch. He peeked with one eye. It was pitch dark. Then he saw a light. A flashlight. He groaned. The light flashed to his face, blinding his squinted eye.

  “Shit! He’s alive!” The man jumped back. “What do we do?”

  “He’s a cop. Finish him.”

  Hank forced his eyes open and lolled his head to face the voice nearest him.

  A blurred face crouched over Hank, reaching for the pistol in the dazed sheriff’s holster.

  Hank moved to stop the thief, but his arm wouldn’t obey. He tried again. The limb screamed with pain. He looked down to see a piece of metal protruding from the arm, pinning him to his seat.

  The agony of his arm brought Hank back to his senses as the stranger cleared the pistol from its holster.

  With clear eyes, he saw the muzzle of his own weapon inches from his face.

  “Do it!” the deep voice ordered from somewhere beyond sight.

  The pistoled trembled. A second hand went to the grip to steady it.

  “Okay,” the young man said.

  Hank helplessly watched the trigger ease back.

  Crack!

  The pistol fell into Hank’s lap. The young robber stumbled backward.

  Crack!

  Brandon fired a second shot from Hank’s AR-15 into the thief’s chest, sending him to the asphalt.

  The rifle trembled in Brandon’s outstretched hand.

  Hank turned to see the youth pinned between his seat and the steering wheel. Brandon’s arm dropped, his strength gone. The weapon clattered to the floorboard.

  Hank heard the second man’s feet grind on asphalt as he sprinted away. A car door opened, then slammed shut. The man was coming back.

  Hank grabbed the hunk of steel in his arm and pulled with all his might, screaming in rage and agony to keep from passing out as the darkness tried to reclaim him. Fog gathered at the edge of his vision as the jagged scrap tore free of his flesh, leaving him numb from the shoulder down.

  He grabbed the pistol in his good hand and stumbled from what was left of his cruiser.

  “You son of a bitch.” The man stood before Hank. Moonlight glinted off a tire iron in his raised hand. “You killed my brother.”

  “He was going to kill me.”

  The man stepped toward Hank.

  The sheriff raised his pistol. “Don’t do it.”

  The man ran back to his car. Hank staggered after him. “Stop!”

  If the other passengers is his car were hurt as badly as he was, Hank knew they wouldn’t last long stranded on the interstate. They needed a car to get back to Freeport. Hank wasn’t about to let this one get away.

  The car door slammed shut. The engine cranked. The car spun around and drove straight at Hank. The sheriff fired at the vehicle, too injured to jump aside. Glass shattered. Tires screeched.

  The car veered inches from Hank and sped away into the gloom.

  Hank turned back to his own ruined squad car.

  “Sheriff,” Brandon called to him. “Help,” the voice barely a whisper. “Mom. Dad. Are you okay?”

  Hank looked down to see Brandon still trapped in the driver seat. The rear of the car was missing. What was left of the back seat was a picture of blood and gore.

  “Sheriff,” Brandon whispered again, “My parents.”

  Hank shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Warm tears streaked Brandon’s dirty face. “No.”

  Hank tugged at the twisted metal trapping the boy. “Can you move your legs?”

  The boy sobbed. “They can’t be dead.”

  “Listen to me.” Hank put his face inches from Brandon’s. “They’re gone. You’re not. You have to live. For them. You have to get out of this car. Now, can you move your legs?”

  Brandon grunted, “Yeah.”

  “Good. When I say go, you climb out. Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hank leaned into the driver seat and pushed it back with all the strength he could muster. “Go!”

  Brandon exhaled, squeezing free of his snare and thudded to the cold asphalt.

  Hank sank to his knees next to Brandon. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” The youth looked over his shoulder toward the back seat.

  “Don’t.” Hank grabbed Brandon’s shoulder. “Don’t ever look back again.”

  Hank pulled Brandon to his feet and slung the AR-15 over his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

  The pair headed east toward the glow on the horizon that was Freeport. They shambled along like two crippled ships limping toward the safety of harbor lights.

  The beacon flickered, flashed back on with one last radiant gasp, then went dark.

  Hank and Brandon trudged onward with only the frozen moon to guide their steps.

  6

  EDUARDO

  Eduardo awoke shivering as the sun crested the horizon. Out his picture window, he saw columns of black smoke rising in the distance. The street below was full of people.

  A steady stream of refugees flowed from the south. Eduardo guessed the bridges on the southern tip of Manhattan were either choked with traffic or blocked off.

  He found a pair of binoculars and focused on the street where stray taxis and clusters of hurried pedestrians pushed northward. Some were well dressed, business suits and the like. Men carrying briefcases, women carrying their high heels. Others were in pajamas or half dressed as if they’d jumped out of bed and into the street. Many vainly kept trying their cell phones, some were bleeding. Even from this height, Eduardo could see the panic on their faces as they craned their necks, looking behind them like a herd of fleeing animals expecting an unseen predator to pounce at any moment.

  He tried to turn the TV on, but it was no use. The electric was still out. He checked his cell phone. Still no signal. He then tried the landline. Dead. He opened his front door and checked the hallway. The emergency lights were on, powered by the building’s generator. He buzzed the lobby. No answer.

  He slipped on a gray hoodie and turned on his satellite phone. Thankfully, it was fully charged. He checked the signal. It took a moment to sync up, but it worked. The screen said he had fourteen missed calls. He dialed, hoping the phone on the other end was still on.

  “Sam!”

  “Eddie! Where the hell are you, man? I’ve been calling you for hours!”

  “I’m in my apartment. What’s up?”

  “Don’t go to the studio. It’s too dangerous.” Coming from Sam, that was saying something. “The city went haywire after the power went out. I got trapped in the studio for a few hours. Barely got out before it was overrun. It started in the financial district. Burning and robbing everything in sight. Killing people for no reason. It’s like freakin’ Fallujah out here. We gotta get off Manhattan.”

  “Was Angie at the studio?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t see her. She must still be at home.”

  “We gotta get to her.”

  “Too dangerous. Her apartment is just three blocks from the network building,” Sam protested.

  “We have to help her. She’s got nobody else.” And neither do I, Eduardo thought.

  Sam was silent for a moment, then said, “Okay.”

  “Where are you?”

  “A few blocks away.”

  “There’s a café nearby. Monk’s. You know it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

  Eduardo scanned his place for anything useful. He grabbed some bottled waters and beef jerky then stuffed them into his back pack. He spotted a street map in a kitchen drawer and packed it too. He looked out the window. F
ires were spreading across the city, silhouetting skyscrapers and filling the air with thick, choking smoke. He touched the glass. The muted sounds of gunshots and explosions shook the glass under his hand. The street below was quiet. Central Park looked tranquil, but Harlem was aflame.

  Eduardo spread the street map out on the floor in front of the window, smoothing it with his hands. He then took a felt-tipped pen and scanned the streets and landmarks, placing an ‘X’ where the fires were. The bridges on the north and south ends of the island were death traps even if they could make it to one of them. He circled a spot spanning the East River.

  Queensboro Bridge. It’s that or we swim.

  Eduardo folded the map and tucked into his shirt. On the way out of the room, he realized he had nothing to defend himself with. He grabbed the steak knife from a drawer and stuck it in his back pocket.

  Just in case.

  It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  Eduardo wondered how long the emergency power would hold out as he descended the dim stairwell. He found the lobby abandoned. Papers littered the floor. Closed circuit television screens still illuminated the unmanned security desk.

  “Hello! Is anybody here?”

  No reply but his own echo. The silence of the place was unnerving.

  A pedestrian sprinted past on the street outside. Eduardo ran into the sunlight and yelled, “Hey! Hey, you!” But the man kept running.

  The sounds of chaos sounded much closer from here. Shouts, shots, and sirens echoed through the urban labyrinth of streetlights and high rises. Ghosts of bedlam yet to come.

  A familiar face emerged from the hotel next door. It was the man he’d met last night at the bar. He was throwing bags into the trunk of a four-door luxury sedan.