Charges (9 page)

“Stay the fuck down, or I’ll kill you.” Vincenzo’s voice was as unsteady as his legs.

“Not going nowhere, man.”

Vincenzo kicked him again, out of spite more than anything else, and the Rasta responded with a satisfying yelp. Vincenzo stepped over him cautiously, Glock in hand, ready to use it if necessary. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he could hear the roar of blood in his ears. He was almost too afraid to move, but he knew he needed to get the hell away from the Rasta before any of the guy’s friends showed up looking for him. Not only that, he’d been extremely lucky. He’d gotten the drop on the bigger man purely by chance. Vincenzo had been in about three fights in his life, including the current one, so he hardly had a wealth of experience to draw upon. Things could have gone sideways very quickly, and it wasn’t as if he’d gotten out of it unscathed. His left hand hurt like hell, but he didn’t take the time to inspect it. He could still wiggle the fingers, so nothing was broken, but his hand would likely be one big bruise before he made it to the GWB.

He backed away from the Rastafarian, who remained on the ground, leaking blood and moaning. Vincenzo kept the Glock in his right hand, trying to look everywhere at once. As soon as he felt it was safe, he turned his back on the Rasta and started running north. His pack slewed from side to side on his back, and he realized he was probably making a scene by running through the dead traffic while holding a pistol. Just the same, he kept it up until he had put a good five hundred feet between him and his fallen opponent.

Chest heaving, he drew to a halt and leaned against a plumbing van. A few people regarded him with cautious eyes. Vincenzo didn’t make eye contact with anyone, just took an inventory of who was where. Anyone could be an enemy, from a street gang to a gaggle of housewives pushing baby strollers, and there was no shortage of either.

The Glock looked a bit old, but it was operational. The pistol used the same ammunition he carried for his Beretta, so at least he now had a backup piece. Glancing back, he saw three people making their way toward the Rastafarian, who was on his feet and leaning against the concrete Jersey barrier, a hand held to his face as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. The three newcomers wore the same kind of knit hat as the one who had accosted him. Vincenzo decided it was time to put some more distance between them, so he turned back around and set off.

7

The farther north he went, the more the city seemed to be destabilizing.

Deeper into the Upper West Side, smoke roiled into the air. Groupings of NYPD officers became more regular, and they seemed to be better armed. The few aid stations he could see from the highway were virtual fortresses surrounded by a sea of blue that enforced order by insisting everyone form neat lines. Anyone who broke from the lines was either arrested or otherwise ejected. That led to more than a few scuffles between the officers and the citizens of New York, who substantially outnumbered the police. But the cops were well armed and well disciplined, and they weren’t above using copious amounts of pepper spray to ensure compliance.

Vincenzo was more than happy to pass by the aid stations and stay on the Henry Hudson Parkway. The sun was high in the sky, and the temperature and humidity were climbing. There was very little shade along his path, so he had no choice but to continue on, sweating all the way. On the parkway, other groups of people also trudged northbound. Everyone kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact with others. Some groups had given up or stopped to rest in the shade of cars and light trucks that had ground to a halt on the parkway. Vincenzo didn’t look at them very closely, but from the corner of his eye he saw the desperation on their faces. Those people, many of them families, wanted to get out of New York City, but they didn’t have the stamina to make it in one continuous hike. Vincenzo wondered how far he could go. His feet and legs were aching, and he had a headache. The heat was sucking away his strength, and the humidity was preventing his sweat from drying, so he had no way to cool down. Already, his shirt was a sodden mess clinging to him like a salty second skin. Every half hour or so, he slathered on more sunscreen as he walked, paying special attention to his ears and the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted was to develop a bad sunburn. He was already miserable enough.

Trekking through West Harlem, he saw the city was continuing to become slowly undone. There was more activity in the streets to the east, including sporadic gunfire, but he heard no sirens, helicopters, or squad cars. He wondered if the NYPD was even in Harlem at all. The neighborhood had changed a lot since the 1970s and 1980s, having undergone a thorough transition from the poster child of urban blight to a renewed, re-gentrified brightness. But old habits died hard, and without the heavy hand of law and order, the neighborhood was apparently reverting to its previous type. Vincenzo found himself ducking a little as he darted from car to car, casting wary glances in all directions. The rest of the folks on the parkway did pretty much the same thing. No one wanted to attract any attention.

He kicked through a field of empty plastic bottles, courtesy of a Coca-Cola delivery truck that had been ransacked, its cargo of carbonated beverages now more valuable than cash money. The storage bays on his side of the vehicle were completely empty. The driver’s door hung open, and the cab was vacant. Someone had even taken a knife to the seats; pale foam padding lay exposed in the bright sunlight.
Guess a Pepsi exec decided to get some revenge.

He looked over the guardrail at Riverside Drive, which for the moment paralleled the Henry Hudson. More pedestrians were there, slowly moving northbound. Weaving around them were bicyclists. Vincenzo wished he had a bike. Even some little girl’s pink Schwinn with tassels and a white basket would be preferable to hoofing it through the heat.
Toughen up, boy. You’ve got one long walk ahead of you.

He skirted what appeared to be a low-speed accident between two cars, a Mercedes S550 and a BMW SUV. Pricey European sheet metal had been crumpled, and the glass in the BMW’s driver’s door was shattered. As he moved past the dead hulks, he noticed droplets of blood on the glass. Inside the BMW was the outline of a figure slumped behind the wheel. He caught a whiff of something pungent, and he realized then that the driver of the BMW had been dead for a couple of days. The hole in the window looked like one that would have been left by a bullet.

Vincenzo picked up the pace. He didn’t want to spend another night on Manhattan Island.

###

Things at the foot of the George Washington Bridge were much, much worse.

Vincenzo realized things were getting hot in a social sense as he drew nearer to the New York Presbyterian Hospital. The medical center was surrounded by people, many injured or sick and others just hungry and thirsty. The aid station there was already out of supplies, and the staff had vacated it hours ago. Not even the NYPD remained.

As Vincenzo trudged up the exit ramp that would take him to Riverside Drive, he entered a large group of travelers, many equipped just as he was, with backpacks, hats, long-sleeved shirts soaked with sweat, long pants, and hiking boots or athletic shoes. One woman even pushed a stroller with triplets inside. She was escorted by three burly men who gazed at their surroundings from beneath the bills of their Yankee and Mets baseball caps, their eyes hidden behind polarized sunglasses. The oldest of the trio was in his late fifties, and the youngest looked to be in his twenties. He assumed all were armed, though he couldn’t see what weapons they were carrying. The youngest man took over for the woman, pushing the stroller up the ramp’s incline. The woman faded back a little bit, her fair skin already sunburned and her straw-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a baseball cap as well, but her sleeveless top left a lot of skin exposed. She would pay the price for that later.

The older man noticed him looking at the group. “What do you need?” he asked.

Vincenzo shook his head. “Nothing. I’m good.” Those were the first words he had spoken to anyone since his encounter with the Rastafarian earlier in the morning. “Are the babies all right?” he asked.

“We’re good,” the man said.

“You guys headed for the GWB?”

The older man scanned the area for a second. “Why do you ask?”

“That’s where I’m headed. Just thought we could make it a group effort. Sounds like some rough territory’s coming up.” Vincenzo pointed at the hospital, which had sounds of distress emanating from that direction, along with the bitter tang of smoke. The path he and the others traveled was already a well-worn one. Plastic bottles, food wrappers, bags, and even used toilet paper lined the sides of the ramp. Several people sat on the sides of the road, resting as they watched the sweating humanity walk past them.

“We don’t need any help,” the younger man pushing the stroller said.

“Bobby, try not to be a dick,” the woman said, her voice thin and breathy.

“Why would you think we’d be the people you’d want to hook up with?” the older man asked.

“Because at least two of us are armed,” Vincenzo said, “and you’ve got babies. You’re going to move slower, and someone might think you’d make a pretty easy target.”

“We don’t need any help,” the younger man repeated as he leaned forward, moving the stroller up the incline of Exit Fourteen.

Ahead, the towers of the hospital loomed. Vincenzo regarded them nervously. Several panes of glass were already broken, and he wondered who would do that to a hospital in the middle of such a crisis.
Maybe for ventilation?

He looked back at the group and found the older man was almost right next to him, a hand under his shirt. The third man had maneuvered his way between Vincenzo and the woman, blocking her from view. His right hand was shoved deep into one pocket on his cargo shorts.

“You have a gun?” the older man said, his voice a deep rumble.

“No,” Vincenzo said. “I actually have two.”

“What do you want with us?” the third man asked. He reached out with his left hand and propelled the woman after the young man pushing the stroller. His wedding ring gleamed in the sunlight.

“I don’t want anything,” Vincenzo said. “I’m a family man. I just wanted to make sure the kids are okay. Looks like they are, so I’ll be on my way. Later.” He stepped away from the older man and lowered his head as he advanced up the ramp, taking long strides despite the aching pain in his legs. His calves complained mightily. He pulled ahead of them quickly.

“Great job, Dad,” the woman said behind him. “The guy was just making sure we were okay.”

Her husband responded in a sharp whisper, but Vincenzo was too far away to hear what he said. Footsteps sounded behind him, and he reached for his Beretta before turning to see that the older man had caught up to him. The guy was sweating profusely beneath his cap, and he smelled of old, sour sweat, the kind of odor that clung to heavy drinkers.

“Hold up, if you would,” he said.

Vincenzo kept walking. “What is it?” He wrapped his fingers around the butt of his pistol, ready to yank it from the holster the second he needed it. He stepped over the legs of a man who was leaning against the ramp wall. The man’s eyes were closed as he gasped for air, his mouth a dark maw in the middle of his scraggly hipster beard. Vincenzo thought the man was about a heartbeat away from heat stroke.

“You want to walk with us, that’s fine,” the older man said. “Sorry, but you’re the first person to ask about the kids. It kind of caught me off guard.”

“Okay. You need to stay on guard all the time now,” Vincenzo said without slowing down. “You’re right to be suspicious. About everyone.”

“Can you hold up a bit? We’ve been at it for hours. We came up from Warren Street. How about you?”

Vincenzo slowed and stepped out of another group’s way. The two men and the woman the older guy was traveling with were fifty feet back. “Fifty-Seventh Street. Not as far as you. You guys must’ve started before curfew ended, right?”

“Yeah, a bit before.” The guy was breathing heavily, and his hand was no longer under his shirt. “You mind if we wait for my family to catch up?”

“Sure, but let’s keep moving. I don’t want to get run over.”

The older man matched his pace but kept looking over his shoulder at the rest of his group. “Sure thing.”

“So you’re the
pater familias
, I take it?”

The guy snorted. “You a Coen brothers fan?”

“Not really, but my wife, she sure loves
O Brother, Where Art Thou
. I think I’ve watched it a million times. Speaking of which, we seem to be in a tight spot.”

“You can say that again. I’m Ken Everett.”

“Tony Vincenzo.”

“Good to meet you, Tony. Tough circumstances, though. You from the city?”

“I’m from the area originally. You?”

Ken shook his head. “Rochester. That’s where we’re headed. You going upstate?”

“No, I’ve got a bit of a longer walk than that. Los Angeles.”

Ken gave him an uncertain smile, as if he thought Vincenzo was pulling his leg. “That’s, uh, that’s like three thousand miles from here.”

“No kidding.”

“Why are you going there, if I could ask?”

“My wife and son are there. I’d just moved back to the city to start a new job, and they held back in LA so my boy could finish out the school year.”

Everett grunted. “Well. You take it one day at a time, and you might make it. Think you’ll get there before winter?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I don’t know. I sure hope so.”

Everett’s family caught up with them. Ken waved a hand. “Guys, this is Tony. Tony, this is my daughter, Carla. The fellow next to her is her husband, Mark, and the man pushing the stroller is my youngest, Bobby. The triplets are Eliza, Erica, and Eti, short for Etienne.”

Tony nodded. “Pleased to meet you all.”

The group murmured their greetings, except for the triplets. Vincenzo peeked under the stroller’s hood. The three girls were sleeping, and they didn’t seem to be in any great distress, despite the heat.