Текст книги "The Battle for New York"

Автор книги: T. I. Wade

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Up to this morning, the north had been experiencing the highest numbers of deaths in North America, Europe, Russia and Asia. But on the third day, the population in the southern regions began to panic. There was no power, no open stores, no police, and no fire engines to put out fires, so the southern areas of the world began to turn to violence. For many people, their refrigerators were now empty, the milk gone, the pantry was down to a couple of items and frozen food was thawing—the non-frozen meat having to be consumed before it went rotten.

All the locked stores had products people now needed. There was a new sense of survival—a new sense that nothing was going to happen for a longer amount of time than they had first envisioned. For the first time, neighbors met their neighbors, people began to form groups, arm themselves, and walk down to their local stores to meet other groups doing the same. Many didn’t want to break the law, but hunger and the welfare of their families came first.

Humans were only human. It took one brave soul to walk up to a door and break it open with a crowbar or steel rod, and then there was a stampede for the food that was neatly packed on the shelves inside. Candy and chocolate were fought over first, once any shopping trolleys had been commandeered. People with guns entered the store, first civil and decent, but once they realized that they had more power than the people without guns, they held the others at bay while their friends and neighbors helped themselves.

It was inevitable, but the first group with guns was confronted by another larger group with guns, and by the third day alliances were being made. Many of the armed people were still sharing their spoils with others. There was still enough for everybody.

An average supermarket in the United States held several million dollars worth of food and merchandise, and in many areas of the country, including the south these were half empty by early afternoon. Like piranha, thousands upon thousands of people denuded the shelves.

By late afternoon the food was gone, as were generators, pet food, lawn tractors, wood, gas cylinders and all heating and cooking items and steel fencing. Everything that could be eaten, used to heat or cook, or to protect people was on the move. Pawn shops and gun stores were attacked and opened. The owners were a little more protective of their institutions of business and dozens of people were shot trying to get inside until the owners and shooters were themselves shot or injured, and the invaders were free to help themselves—often climbing over the owners’ dead bodies to get to what was inside.

The mass of people heading home with piles of merchandise began to push the junk aside and clear the roads so that they could get through. Cars were pushed off the road and fires were lit to burn the remains of trucks and cars for warmth, once their insides were emptied.

Most of the people got supplies for several days of survival. Useless electronics were still taken by many, the people hoping that one day they would work again. Banks were attacked and many tried in vain to open the vaults and the buildings were then torched in frustration. Gas stations were cleaned out of snacks and drinks, the gasoline and diesel sitting safely below ground in tanks. The majority of the people had never hot-wired a car in their lives, never mind something more complicated.

As the stores emptied, the late or honest ones were left with bare shelves and empty isles staring back at them. It was time to go and buy, barter, beg and then forcibly take it away from the people who had gotten there sooner.

It was time for anarchy, exactly what Chairman Wang Chunqiao in Nanjing thought 30 years ago would be his army of devastation—the American people themselves. A far bigger army that he could ever put together, well-armed and dedicated soldiers who would kill anybody for anything they had.

It was time for Chairman Wang Chunqiao’s army to fight in earnest, and they started just before dark on the third day.

*****

Dawn was breaking when Captain Mallory woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. First, he thought the events of the past few days were only a dream and the world was back to normal, but after opening his eyes to the sight of one of his flight attendants standing in front of him with a steaming cup of fresh brew, he realized that it was not a dream.

“We heard faint noises outside,” Pam Wallace told him. “We couldn’t see anything but I’m sure I heard a tractor or two moving around out there earlier. We let you sleep, Captain. You needed a good night’s rest.”

“Thank you,” he replied, taking the coffee and sitting up. He had slept on the front seat of the SWAT truck, a few blankets had filled the hole between the seats and he had slept well, exhausted from the previous two days. The captain was still dressed, except for his thick winter coat, and he put that on and unlocked the main door to the hangar. He slid it open just enough to walk outside and was confronted by several men—three sitting on old farm tractors and the rest standing, all armed and interested to see who was in the private hangar owned by a doctor friend of theirs who had gone down to Key West for Christmas and was not yet expected back. Also, there were no wheel tracks of his aircraft landing on the runway.

“I don’t believe you own this hangar,” stated one of the farmers sitting on his tractor.

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” agreed the captain. “I’m Captain Mike Mallory, a pilot with Southwest Airlines. When the power went out over New York, I landed my aircraft in the water, managed to survive, rescue my passengers, and I am now taking my crew and what’s left of my passengers south to escape the cold. It is bitterly cold up there in New York and very dangerous.”

“You mean that this power outage is bigger than just around here?” the same farmer asked.

“I believe it’s countrywide,” replied the Captain. “There are fires in New York as big as some of the buildings. All of I-95 is clogged with dead cars and trucks. We must have seen at least a thousand dead bodies in the cars, frozen to death. We even saw a couple of lions that must have escaped from a local zoo eating a human body in New Jersey. It is pure carnage out there, and I think it’s getting even colder.”

“You’re right,” replied the farmer. “Air smells like we going to get an arctic blast sometime today. Why are you here in our friend’s hangar? Do you know him?”

“Unfortunately no, but I’ve flown into this airfield several times on recreational trips and fueled up from those fuel tanks over there. Mickey Mason was the guy who always refueled me when I landed here.”

“We know Mickey! He also flew out of here just before Christmas, down to Macon, Georgia to visit his folks,” added the farmer. A fourth tractor appeared, driving into the airfield as fast as it could with a young boy on top. He pulled to a halt and was excited.

“Pa, I saw a convoy of more old trucks driving south. There was at least nine or ten of them. I saw them through the binoculars. Fords and Dodges they were, and they went past the off-ramp and didn’t stop.”

“I’m sure there will be thousands coming south to escape the cold up there,” continued Captain Mallory. “There must be thousands upon thousands of dead up there already and this cold blast is not going to help anybody stay alive.”

John came out and introduced himself, still in his flight uniform, and so did a couple of the flight attendants.

“We have cleaned up our mess, Captain. The trucks are packed and we are ready to go,” he reported to Mallory. He then turned to the farmer. “We got a donation from all the passengers and crew and there are a couple of hundred dollars on the owner’s desk for what little food and drink we consumed.”

“I’ll let him know when he comes back,” replied the farmer. “Captain Mallory, what are we supposed to do?”

“Can you survive the winter?” the Captain asked.

“Sure,” the farmer replied. “We have firewood and food. We have enough hay stored for our cattle. We will have to milk the cows by hand since nothing works, but yes, we can last the winter. When are things going to get back to normal?”

“Unfortunately, with what we’ve seen in New York and on the highway, I don’t think things are going to be right again for quite a while, gentlemen. Nothing electrical works, apart from any old mechanical machines and vehicles. It is as if every piece of modern machinery has died, from jumbo jets to I’m sure some of your newer farm equipment.” The farmers nodded, agreeing with the captain. “People are going to get hungry and mean. They are going to die, if not first from the cold, then hunger will get them. My belief is that the meanest will survive by killing the weak and honest for their food. I’m sure this scenario has been played out many times in Hollywood movies depicting the end of the world since the 1930s.”

Everyone nodded, listening to him. They had all seen the movies, even the very latest. “The only major forces to protect us against people with guns are the military bases or police stations, if they are still organized… or even groups of people in communities protecting what they own.”

“What can we do to help our country?” another farmer asked.

“I think that you guys must stay alive for one, protect yourselves for two, and start growing edible food as soon as it’s time to plant. Corn, vegetables, meat and whatever you can grow to keep people alive. Help your local communities. Get your community numbers up. Barrage the off ramps to stop people in vehicles coming to attack you. I don’t know… I’m a pilot for God’s sake. But this country must survive, and for the people to survive, they must be housed and fed.”

“But there are hundreds of miles of farmland around here. How can we protect that?” another farmer asked.

“I know that there are other communities of farmers just like you out there. Go and spread the news. Tell them to get ready, get ready for good people begging for food and bad people who will shoot to steal anything they can. I think money has no value anymore. Maybe bartering is the new form of financial system. Staying alive and keeping this country going will have to be the ultimate reason to stay alive for everybody.” Captain Mallory thought for a moment and then asked John to open the hangar door and start the vehicles. “Farmers, go to your local National Guard station or military base. Ask them for help in return for food when they run out. That’s bartering. They will also run out of provisions one day and die without guys like you growing new food. I think that a strongly protected community will deter vigilantes and they will go where the pickings are easier. Try and help the poorer citizens if you can. Maybe the Army will give you guards or weapons to defend your farms. The promise of future food I’m sure will help. Send out people on horseback or tractors like the Civil War days and get other communities to do the same—protecting themselves and growing food to bring this country back to strength, and then we will see an end to this whatever it is. Tell them that the cities are dying and to expect cold and hungry, good and bad. Look after the good and repel the bad.”

There was silence until the old engines started up behind him.

“There are a couple of us who would like to stay and help the farmers,” said one of the male passengers, “if they will feed us. We can increase their numbers and help protect their community. Some of us are from around here and the surrounding areas and we have nowhere else to go.”

The farmers asked how many there were, and a family of three put up their hands, as well as several men and women. One of the flight attendants said that her town was only 20 or 30 miles to the west and she would like to try and get home to her husband. The men on the tractors nodded, inspired by Captain Mallory’s speech.

“I think letting people know that they could be in this for the long haul is most important, then community protection, and then food production. Getting that information out as far and wide as we can will help keep this area of the country alive. People not being able to text on their cell phones will certainly be a benefit, in my point of view,” smiled the captain, and he turned to the group behind him. “This is still a democratic country. Anybody who is invited to stay may stay. As for the rest of you, we are leaving in five minutes. I want to see if we can catch up to the convoy that passed by several minutes ago.” He then turned back to the dozen farmers. “If I don’t come back and refuel here again someday, tell Mickey Mason to remember me, and that he still owes me a beer. Tell him Mike Mallory and the white Cessna 210 say ‘hello’.”

With that, the farmers thanked him, and the people leaving on the convoy made their way to the farm vehicles with their belongings. A count was made of those staying: 15 passengers and one flight attendant.

The trucks moved out, and the captain stopped to say goodbye to the lead farmer. “It’s going to take farmers to keep this country alive. The politicians are history. The manufacturers are useless without electricity—nothing works anymore. I don’t believe that there are many vehicles working out there anymore either, including ships and planes. We are stranded on this continent and the people who are alive after the winter are going to depend on you to feed them. Spread the word, get others to spread the word, and tell them to get this country running again.” And with that he shook several hands, got a goodbye hug and kiss from the flight attendant who was staying and they drove out of the gate towards the main highway.

They found the tracks of the convoy running north to south in the snow, about six inches deep, as they climbed onto the southbound side of the highway. The captain realized that this convoy would not have seen their previous tracks, since his convoy had stayed on the northbound side, and he decided to follow them on the southbound side. The convoy up front would have to clear the road and that would help Captain Mallory and his vehicles catch up with them. He had no way to know that he did not want to catch up with them—they were Chinese.

For an hour, they drove south as fast as they could, sometimes getting up to 30 miles an hour for short stretches, but the unending dead vehicles continued to be a problem, even though it was slightly easier to follow the tracks of the forward convoy around them. The number of stranded vehicles started increasing the closer they got to Washington, DC. Their fuel was down to less than half when they came across several parked SUVs together, and the captain decided to call a break and siphon as much gas as they could.

Captain Mallory looked up at the sky as he was resting, eating a large Swiss triangular chocolate bar. Bad weather was coming in and he didn’t like it. With his experience, this storm looked ominous. Long wispy high stratus clouds, nearly pencil-thin, going south, were showing high wind speeds in the atmosphere, and it was only 9:00 am. They needed to get as far south as possible today.

They managed 60 gallons out of four vehicles, not enough for more than a quarter tank per vehicle, but enough for two hours of driving. The next stop 15 minutes later was at an actual gas station just off the highway, deserted and almost hidden amongst thick trees. The small and desolate gas station was out of view of everybody except those who had seen the signs. He had hoped that the convoy in front might stop at a place like this, but they had continued on.

A window was broken, and he sensed life in the small shop area of the gas station. It did not have a restaurant attached to it, just a small Subway sandwich bar. He gathered a couple of the men together with M4s and carefully went inside.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” shouted a young boy’s voice from behind the candy aisle. “Don’t shoot, sir! It’s only me, my mom and my two sisters. We are cold and trying to keep warm in here.”

“Anybody else in here?” shouted Captain Mallory.

“No, sir, there was a couple—a man and a woman—a couple of hours ago with a dog. They were also from the accident on the highway, but they left to walk south. It’s only us here now, mister.”

John ordered the boy to come out with his hands up, and a grubby kid about nine or ten years old came out with chocolate all over his face. He was trying to be brave.

“You’re okay, kid, we aren’t going to hurt you. We’re just stopping to get supplies and head on south. Where are you from?” asked the captain, as they lowered their weapons and the boy let his hands slowly drop.

“We live in Charleston, South Carolina, sir. We were on our way home after visiting our grandparents for Christmas in Philadelphia. My mom has to go back to work. She was driving when the car stopped, skidded on the snow, and then hit another one—with the couple who left a couple of hours ago.”

“Where’s your father?” John asked.

“I don’t know, sir. He left a couple of years ago.” The flight attendants went behind the counter to get the rest of the boy’s family and brought out a woman and two little girls, about six and three. The woman had a severe cut on her head, her clothes were covered with blood and she, or her son, had used a First Aid box to bandage and clean the wound. She looked sick and was cold and shivering, as were the two little girls who were carrying the blanket they had wrapped themselves in.

It took 30 minutes, but they took everything that remained on the shelves, all the bottles of water and soft drinks, got the new travelers warm and comfy in the back of the truck, and continued on their way.

It was only two miles later that they saw fresh blood on the snow in front of them and two bodies lying on the packed snow. A dog was curled up next to the bodies but it ran for cover when they stopped. The blood was still fresh and freezing as it hit the snow, the Captain noticed, as he and John looked down at what used to be a man and a woman, obviously alive only a couple of hours earlier. They had been both shot a dozen times, had fallen backwards, and then been run over by several large vehicles, most likely to make sure that they were dead. Their dog was off on the side of the highway barking at them, and John got the young boy to see if he could identify the dog. It belonged to the couple that had been with them in the gas station, and the dog remembered the boy, ran up, wagged its tail and was lifted into the back of the truck.

“I don’t think we want to meet whoever is driving up ahead of us after all,” suggested John, and the captain nodded. “The 495 interchange is a couple of miles ahead. I think it would be better to take the one they don’t take, since either of the 495 legs will get us back to I-95 just south of D.C.”

“Hopefully we don’t arrive together at the south interchange,” added the captain. “I think we should fill our tanks before we get there and if we reach I-95 first, we’ll keep going until our tanks are dry and get back on the northbound side to hide our tracks.”

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the 495 beltline around Washington, and the weather was getting bitterly cold and the wind increasing from the northwest. The first group’s tracks turned right on the beltline towards Fairfax, so they went east.

The stranded vehicles were fewer on the beltline and they made good time, averaging 30 miles an hour. They decided not to take the shortcut using 295 directly south, knowing that traffic could be heavier on that stretch and they could come out behind the other convoy, or be very close to them.

An hour later, they found another refueling opportunity—three Chevy Suburbans and a Penske truck all on the same stretch of road a few hundred yards from each other. They separated and began filling their tanks. It took 20 minutes and when they ran out of gas from those trucks, they switched to any other gas-powered vehicles, draining fuel until they had every tank filled to the brim, including the ten five-gallon canisters.

They were now three miles from the southern interchange and ready for action. All their weapons were checked and a couple of rifle grenades added to each vehicle. There was a lot of tension as they reached the final mile of 495, and saw the end of the other convoy, still in front of them, already on I-95 about a mile or so ahead of where they were. They felt a sense of relief, because if they hadn’t filled everything when they did, the two convoys could have reached the interchange at the same time, and ten vehicles was a big army compared to what they had.

Captain Mallory then decided to get off the southbound highway and rejoin it driving south on the northbound lanes. If they came across the people in front of them, they could have a little cover from the crash barriers.

They drove slower, keeping to 25 miles an hour once they left the Washington area. The snow covering the asphalt was down to sheets of ice in parts and it was getting more and more slippery. The cold was increasing, as was the wind, and it looked grey, like it could snow soon. For four hours they drove, not stopping once, and finally they had to decide whether or not to go around Richmond. It wasn’t a tough decision because they stopped and checked things on foot and found out that the forward convoy had reached the 295 interchange and had gone straight south on I-95. They predictably chose to continue on 295 around the city.

It was 3:30 by the time they had reached the end of the 295 belt line around Richmond, refilled their tanks as much as they could, and reconnected with I-95. They thought that they would be further behind the other convoy, but there were no tracks on either side of the highway and they decided to carry on as far as possible on the northbound side hoping that the ten vehicles, now behind them if they were still going south, would stay to the other side.

For an hour they headed south, the skies clearing again and the threat of snow diminishing. The roads were also drier, with patches of ice in the shadows and dead vehicle congestion lighter than around Washington and Richmond.

“We should be coming up to the North Carolina border soon,” John stated over the radio from the rear SWAT truck. They had three working radios, in the two SWAT trucks and the fire engine, which was being driven by one of flight attendants.

“About 12 more miles,” replied Captain Mallory, still driving the lead truck. They were bunched up as close as possible making themselves a smaller target for anyone watching. “I used to refuel at a very small airport a few miles from here. The town of Emporia has a small municipal airport and I’m thinking we could stay there tonight. Hopefully those other guys will just carry on and leave us alone.”

“I’m think I hear a small aircraft engine somewhere close by. Do you hear it, Mike?” asked John.

“Yes, I think I can. The Emporia turnoff is two miles ahead. Let’s turn off. The airport is to our east, and if we head there maybe it will follow us, or maybe it’s even headed in to land there. Make sure nobody sees us turn off from behind. Use the binoculars. We don’t want to be followed.”

The five vehicles headed off the highway following the on-ramp and had to push a small car to the side that had turned over. A small Nissan, it moved easily as the SWAT truck pushed it down the ramp and off to one side. It was empty. They then followed SR 58 east. A road sign showed that the airport was a couple of miles outside of the deserted town. Here, a couple of the buildings were blackened ruins and one three-story building was still on fire. Damage, the Captain figured, that had started after midnight. They were in the eastbound lane of SR 58—a two-lane highway—and it was several minutes before the small airport was seen on their left side. They drove into the airport and found it deserted.

The five vehicles stopped in a line in the only aircraft parking lot in front of a couple of buildings and hangars, and switched their engines off. For several minutes, the three radios had been tuned to try and find the frequency the aircraft, which could still be heard far off to the north, was using. They tried, but did not get any response.

It was 4:30 pm, and Captain Mallory thought that they had about 45 minutes of daylight left. There was no other noise, apart from the flying aircraft, which sounded like it was getting closer.

“Sounds like a Cessna 210,” John suggested now standing next to his captain. Owning one himself, the captain nodded his agreement. It sounded like his own aircraft he kept where he lived just outside Dallas, Texas. The M4s had good sights on them, and it didn’t take the captain long to find the aircraft. The Cessna was coming towards the airport, easily silhouetted by the grey northern sky, and dropping rapidly from a high altitude.

“Southwest staff, get your uniforms on!” ordered the captain, going for his jacket and replacing his warm jacket with it. Within seconds, his crew—again dressed as Southwest flight personnel– moved several yards closer to the only northwest/southeast runway to their right. He ordered everybody to hide all weapons and for all the women and children to line up in front of their vehicles to show the incoming pilot that they meant no harm.

The 210 came down to the northern edge of the airfield at well over 200 miles an hour, and they waved as it passed over the runway at full speed less than 100 feet above the asphalt. The aircraft rose into a steep climb, slowed, and dropped its flaps and wheels for a swift landing from the south.

The Southwest pilots knew what the pilot was doing and within a minute the wheels touched down and the Cessna came to a stop very quickly on the runway. It did not take the little feeder road, but turned back on the runway and slowly came forward, stopping about 200 yards from them. As the engine shut off, the pilot got out of the left side with an M16—the older version of the M4 they carried—and aimed at them from beneath the engine cowling of the Cessna.

“You are wearing pilot uniforms. Who are you?” the unexpected woman’s voice shouted over to them. “I have enough firepower here to blow you apart before you can get back to your friends. I also have enough company in my plane to help me. You, the most senior pilot, come closer. Tell me your name, rank and serial number.” The captain went forward, and she saw by his insignia that he was the most senior person in the group.

“Captain Mike Mallory. I fly 737-400s for Southwest. We went down in New York, and I’m trying to get my remaining passengers and crew to safety. That is my co-pilot and two of my three flight attendants. We lost one.”

“Senior Flight Attendant, please come forward,” the lady pilot asked, and Pam Wallace stepped up to where the captain stood. The young girl from New York went as well, not wanting to leave her side. “Tell the other one to stay where she is,” the pilot ordered.

“I can’t, she’s injured and I’m looking after her. She’s a kid, only sixteen,” Pam replied. The pilot then ordered both of them to come forward and spoke to Pam for a few seconds. Then she dropped her weapon’s barrel and went around to the passenger door of the 210. She leaned in and pulled out a young girl, putting her on one hip, and came forward to the captain, Pam, and the teenager.

“I’m sorry about that, Captain Mallory. I needed to make sure we weren’t in any danger. We are expecting it at any moment. I’m Martie Roebels and this is little Beth. Where are you guys going in such an interesting group of vehicles?”

“South,” the Captain replied, gladly shaking the hand offered to him. “Pam, tell everybody to relax, and send out a couple of armed men to search the hangars and offices over there for a place to stay while I chat with Ms. Roebels here. Did you see another convoy on your flight north?”

“Yes, they were less than a couple of miles behind you on the southbound side. You were heading south on the northbound side. By the time I lost sight of them, they had just passed this exit still heading south. They have ten vehicles—trucks, by the look of it, and not as pretty as yours. Do you want me to tell them where you are?”

“Negative,” replied the Captain. “We thought they might be okay at first, but we found two recently killed people on the highway north of Washington and we think they did it. They had driven straight over the bodies with every one of those ten vehicles they are driving in. I think they are a bad bunch, whoever they are.”

“They must be the people we are expecting,” Martie replied. “They should probably reach us by tomorrow morning.”

“Where is that?” asked the Captain.

“We are situated off US 64 in North Carolina, on the shores of Jordan Lake about 15 to 20 miles west of RDU.”

“I know the lake well,” replied Captain Mallory. “I fly into RDU a couple of times a month.”

“I have about 20 minutes of light left, so I need to keep going,” Martie calculated. “If you want to come and use our facility as a home base, I recommend that you get to RDU. It is safe and still locked. We have a dozen Air Force guards on duty there since earlier today. Mention that General Pete Allen sent you. I apologize that we have already cleaned out the Southwest terminal of food, but if you head there in the morning, I will come and find you once we have dealt with this other group.”

“How do they know where you are?” John asked.

“Simple. Our transponders were coming out of our airfield for a day or so, and the Chinese, or whoever they are, still have their spy satellites up. We are now on high alert and the president should be at our airfield by now.”

“The U.S. President?” the captain asked. “Do you have enough firepower?”

Martie laughed. “We have what is left of the entire U.S. Air Force, and we definitely need more pilots!” Martie chuckled. “Our Air Force is hiring right now, actually. Your passengers will be safe with us and then we can get them to Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, if they prefer more of an official military presence.”