Loss Of Reason, Miles A. Maxwell [electronic reader txt] 📗

As soon as Everon had the radios, battery and generator switched off, he jumped from the pilot’s seat, blades still spinning, and chased after Franklin and Chuck.

The air was filled with a bitter burning smell. Death. He dodged around girders, shards of glass, an endless sea of brick and concrete chunks big as the cars they’d flattened. And always, the bodies.

The Red Cross man was only twenty yards up, kneeling on the cracked, tilted sidewalk to check the pulse of a ten-year-old blond child. A blue leash ran out to one side. The boy had fallen face down next to his mother and their dog, a black lab puppy. The puppy’s head protruded from beneath the concrete block that had surely broken its neck. A puddle of dark blood, not quite dry, swept out from the mother’s long blonde hair like a red halo.

It looked like they’d been pushed over by tremendous force. He thought he heard Chuck say, “Nothing!” as he went by.

If someone was alive here they’d already be gone. Everon could see Franklin far ahead already, bag slung over each shoulder, halfway into the next block of 59th Street. They had to get to Cyn.

Along the south side of Bloomingdale’s, smoke was not the only smell. Everon tasted a ragged, putrid stench. It surrounded him, penetrating his sinuses. The morning sun had melted an early dusting of snow, a cold February night turned warm enough to make bodies begin to bloat — warm enough to make hibernating fly eggs hatch, attracted to a feast of scattered carnage. Black specks dotted the humans who were their first meal.

“People finishing their shopping — ready for a glass of wine and whatever,” Everon muttered with disgust as Chuck caught up.

“Ready to eat, and being eaten instead,” Chuck huffed. “God, that’s gross. I hate flies.”

Almost to the corner of Lexington, Everon fell backward onto his butt to keep himself from slipping into a long crevasse. The collapsed subway line they’d flown over.

Chuck helped him up. They ran on . . .

There’s no real protection anywhere, Franklin thought as he dodged through the war zone that had been Lexington Avenue. Corpses lay strewn among the debris, some burned to raw flesh, hair fried like black steel wool. Others, a completely exposed hand or foot bone — degloving, he’d heard it was called at Hiroshima. Skin and flesh peeled away like the removal of a glove.

A two-by-three-foot Mexican oil painting, a Day-Glo Jesus, lay face up in the streaming water, blood-red heart exposed and beating in his open chest.

Every sidewalk tree was broken. How could Cynthia have lived through this? he wondered.

But then he saw a single ginkgo, his favorite, most of its prehistoric leaves still on, defiant inside the dark loops of knee-high protective ironwork.

He ran on . . .

Everon gave a wide berth to the flaming gas ball expanding and contracting in the middle of Lexington. The heat was intense.

Most first-floor storefronts were demolished. The remaining buildings had a kind of dark, singed surface. A nail salon, a place that sold sandwich wraps and smoothies were hardly touched. The deli next door, the buildings on its right were collapsed, crushed and filled, pushed in backward by debris. The deli’s mangled awning tubes hung out on the sidewalk.

He found Franklin, on the other side of the street, running back toward him, staring upward at Cyn’s granite-faced five-story. What had once been a large, attractive entrance was filled with brick and steel — huge chunks of blackened concrete swept into it by the blast.

Chuck caught up, wheezing, bent over. “Any way in?” he shouted over the flaming gas. “It’s so hot!”

“Couldn’t get into the alley behind,” Franklin said. “I tried going around the block — not around the side either. The first-floor windows in front are barred, no way to get through.”

“If we had a grinder, dammit! A cutter —” Everon looked up. “Can you scale it, Bro?”

Franklin looked up. He had been studying the building’s face for just that reason. The broken fascia certainly offered a wealth of hand and toeholds. The fireball reached out again. He would be able to count on nothing. He could see the hot bricks breaking loose in his hands. The concrete crumbling.

“Look out!” He pushed Everon and Chuck out of the way. A slab of gray granite the size of a breakfast table shattered in the street.

Franklin shook his head as he looked back up. “Take too long. If I made it.”

“If you lived through it,” Everon agreed.

“There’s got to be a way to get me on top somehow.” Franklin squinted at his brother. “We didn’t really try, did we? How long is the hoist cable?” He measured the gas ball visually as it shrank back again. “Maybe when it’s like that?” The towering fireball had shrunk to hot air balloon size. It was already expanding.

“There’s got to be a few feet on the far corner, somewhere clear from the flame enough where Chuck can lower me down.”

Everon nodded slowly, eyeing with trepidation the blazing yellow fire thundering up out of the street.

Boom!

Up ahead, a huge chunk of sandstone rolled into Lexington. “Better stay away from overhangs,” Franklin said as they ran the increasingly difficult obstacle course back toward 59th Street. “This part of the city is still falling down.”

Everon’s eyes followed a trail of smoke drifting toward them from the east. Fifteen minutes ago it had been moving straight up.

“The wind is changing too,” he muttered.

They rounded the corner of Bloomingdale’s into the narrow entry of 59th again, where the fly-pestered corpse of a gray-haired man lay face up across the sidewalk, his head hanging down over the edge of the subway ditch.

“Ouch!” Chuck said as he stepped around the body, his ankle knocking an eight-inch block of gray concrete to tumble down the side of the pit. It landed with a metallic bang on the partially exposed metal corner of a subway car.

Franklin turned his head and stopped. “Do you hear something?”

The three men listened. The sound of people yelling, and a dull banging from beneath the earth.

“Voices!” Everon said.

“Down there!” Chuck pointed into the ditch.

“Hold on!” Franklin yelled, looking for a place to climb down.

“What about Cyn!” Everon said.

“What if she’s down there?”

“She’s not!” Everon said, puzzled, a little irritated at his step-brother’s sudden change of direction.

“We just leave them down there?” Chuck shot back, nodding toward the train. “There could be hundreds of people trapped down there.”

Franklin looked back toward Cynthia’s apartment. “How do we know?” He pointed to a subway sign up the street by a staircase that went down into the ground. “The subway stop is a block from here. Right by her house. We take a few minutes, open a way out for them if we can. They can find their own way off the island.”

Everon’s lips tightened doubtfully. He looked over the edge. The