Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse (10 page)

Even though he desperately wanted to get to New York, time for Michael had taken on a new meaning. There was no longer any horrible swipe at the alarm clock at six in the morning, no need to get to meetings, no excitement for that big football game to start in a few hours. In fact, no normal keenness to get to a dinner date or the cinema with his beloved girlfriend.

At least he had spoken with some people again, like a regular human being, instead of skirting around the person like they had the plague. It was a family who he conversed with, slow to leave the city, possibly unbelieving that the situation would continue. Once again, he heard the tale of people planning to head out to family in a smaller town. He told them his plan, got the usual worrying expressions, then they wished each other well, and parted. Soon after, he had found that longed-for sports store. It was looted, of course, but he managed to change his stinking clothes for a mish-mash of clean sportswear. Then he went to the bike section, or to the space in which the bike section had once been. There he had stood and laughed uproariously, though he knew he was laughing, and that was a good sign that he wasn’t going mad. There was still one bicycle there for him to steal/commandeer. One bicycle that he thought was no longer produced: a tandem. Nevertheless, it would have to do. He walked it through the trashed shop, out onto the car-park. It was strange at first, but he soon mastered it, and got on his way out of New Haven. Of course, the free seat behind him was filled, periodically, by his girlfriend, by Molly, by Mahatma Gandhi, by Michael Jackson, all of which he put down to his fatigue and continued worry. Late in the day, he sensed his girlfriend behind him again, humming one of those
One
Direction
tunes. He knew her love for Harry Styles matched that for himself, but he didn’t mind. Once, jokingly, she had asked him to grow his hair out, and they had wrestled on the bed and he had mock-sulked at being compared to her idol.

Out into the countryside, Michael’s road stretched on and on, with the ever-present abandoned or crashed vehicles. Occasionally, he passed refugees on foot, but didn’t bother to speak with them. For the first time, he came to a green road sign, up above the carriageway, which had NY City written on it. There was no mileage distance offered, which disappointed him. He rode on.

He stopped from time to time, to sit on the grass and sip from his slowly-diminishing water supply. He consulted the map he possessed, bought so long ago back in Wethersfield. Once, when he saw a fairly large group approaching, he hurried on his way. But he did wait to speak with two elderly men who were passing, pushing what he could only describe as the definitive apocalyptic hand cart, loaded with all their world’s possessions.

‘Good day to you,’ said one of the men.

‘Hello, there.’

‘Are you well, mister?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you? Are you headed to New York?’

‘New York? Hell, no. Bridgeport.’

‘How far is New York from here?’

The man looked at his companion, then shrugged. ‘Maybe about forty miles.’

Michael’s face lit up. ‘Is that all?’

‘Reckon so. Well, good luck to you, young man.’

‘And good luck to you!’

***

When Mr Manning said that his missing wife was called Zahira, and that she came originally from Semarang in Indonesia, Sabrina burst into tears. Mr Manning looked surprised that the other woman in the cabin of his boat, Allison, didn’t make any move to comfort the girl, that she looked quite annoyed, in fact. It was the Englishman who moved over to put an arm around her shoulders.

‘What was your name again, young man?’ asked Mr Manning.

Introductions had come at the point of the shotgun, so it was understandable that they had not quite stuck in the mind.

‘It’s Liam, Mr Manning.’

‘Well, Liam, the soup’s almost ready.’ He was stirring a pan on a gas hob. ‘Make that young lady comfortable, and I’ll serve up.’

Sabrina had found a tissue and was pulling herself together. Liam looked again at their host, as bread was passed round, prior to the soup being poured; Mr Manning was about seventy years of age, completely grey, which was more striking due to his weathered sun tan. But he looked healthy and fit. His wife, Zahira, had been away at a hairdressing conference in Atlantic City. He was terribly worried, but knew his cousins were very close to there, so hoped they had managed to link up.

‘So, you’re going to find your sister,’ said Mr Manning, passing out steaming bowls. ‘Commendable. And, ladies, you’re going along, why?’

‘Thank you,’ said Allison, accepting her soup. ‘I’m waiting for a better plan to come along.’

Sabrina didn’t say she just wanted to be with Liam. The young man gave her a soup bowl, then sat beside her with his own.

‘Did you come to your boat, Mr Manning?’ asked Liam, ‘or were you here when this thing started?’

‘I was home, friend. Barnes Avenue, nearby. But shooting started happening up there. I was worried over Zahira. This is our special place. Going up and down the coast together. Some folks I know are on other boats. We keep a check on each other.’

‘Delicious soup,’ said Allison.

Mr Manning looked surprised again. Then he recognised that this woman was self-absorbed, happy when something was for her. He had seen that in a previous wife - while Zahira was the most unselfish, sweetest woman he could have wished for. If only he had met her earlier in his life, and now he might have lost her. He ate his soup. It was exciting to have these people drop in. Liam and the Asian girl seemed to be a couple. He was puzzled as to how the Englishwoman had joined up with them.

‘Young lady,’ he said to Sabrina, ‘where are you from?’

‘Jakarta. Well, Depok, in Jakarta.’

‘I’ve been there. In about 2005. Well, extraordinary to see you here.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

Mr Manning looked at Liam.

‘What’s your plan once you get to New York? How do you know you won’t just find chaos there?’

Liam wiped his lips.

‘What else can I do, Mr Manning? I can’t get home. Not until things change. Should I make a plough and start working the land? I have to go where my sister expects me. I know what hotel she was in. I’ll get there and maybe she’s left me a message.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you have got a choice. What if I offered to take you people to New York?’

Allison pulled a wide-eyed expression, clearly thinking of not having to walk any more, but she held her tongue. Liam and Sabrina exchanged looks.

‘That will be fantastic,’ said Liam, grinning hard for the first time in a while. ‘To Manhattan? Can you get us onto Manhattan?’

‘Manhattan? Sure.’ Mr Manning was excited with the mission. He brought out a bottle of Scotch. ‘Let’s toast! Sabrina, just coke for you, though?’

Sabrina smiled. ‘Just coke for me, Mr Manning.’

‘Just like my Zahira.’

Michael found himself whistling as he cycled along; a trait of his father’s which always annoyed his mother. He grinned as he thought about his dad. The last time he had visited his parents they had just brought home two statues from an aunt who was downsizing. The statues were of a cowboy on his horse and a Red Indian on his horse. Both were appalling, in Michael’s opinion. His mother put them in the hall, but his dad kept moving the Red Indian, much to his mother’s chagrin. His father grinned at Michael and said the Indian just refused to stay on the reservation.

Michael cycled through yet another of those moon landscape communities, made worse with the fact that all the businesses were set back from the road and built as one storey. A Chinese restaurant was ablaze, and other similar establishments had clearly been ransacked, some smouldering; so he was looking for less obvious places to stock up on his supplies. Given the nature of the situation, a phone store would surely have been left alone by the mobs. He waited for a small group of figures to move off into the distance, before cycling over to the store which had caught his attention. The front window had been smashed, but he could see that nothing had been disturbed inside. He kicked at the shattered glass to make a safe entryway and ducked inside. He went straight to the till area. He took a pair of scissors, for no obvious reason, picked up a packet of mints. Through to the back of the shop, there was no vending machine, but there was a water cooler for him to slake his thirst. A small staff room to the left offered him half a dozen lockers, which he considered shooting the locks off, for only a brief moment. There was a fridge to investigate. He ignored the mouldy sandwich and the gone-off milk, but took the chocolate bars. It was a poor haul for the risk of entering a property, but it would have to do. On the way out, he looked at all the smart phones, identifying his girlfriend’s model, wishing he could speak to her. An idea came to him, which had him collecting up a dozen or so of the handsets and putting them in his rucksack.

Back outside, another pair of men were passing with their own apocalyptic hand cart. He let them go along the road, before cycling past at a wide berth. He kept on the same way, pleased with his fitness, his mind wandering to the time he could let his girlfriend feel his professional cyclist’s thighs. It was a good time for one of those chocolate bars, tasting amazing, as most things do when rationed. He thought of more people to be on the tandem with him; Barack Obama. Michael J. Fox. Jenny Dalton (the barmaid from the Horse and Hounds pub, near his flat in London).

He was looking for a detour, and it came along: a smaller tree-lined road, parallel to the highway. He was determined to keep his bearings. Along he went, crossing a railway line, seeing the occasional house, further and further into woodland. He was alone, but when he felt that sensation of isolation he turned off onto a dirt track. He allowed the forest to swallow him up, but not so much that he couldn’t find his way back. Then he left the tandem and walked until he found a spot that suited his needs. From the rucksack he took out the cell phones and stood them up on several fallen trees. The automatic rifle he had taken from the dead fireman in New Haven came out next. He had examined it previously, was familiar with how to handle it, but now was the time to try it out. He walked further on into the forest and turned, so that he would be firing back - if he hit his bike, so be it. He knelt, switched the rifle to single fire, settled himself and took aim. His first shot hit nothing but foliage. But his next few generally took out the phones, in a splatter of glass and plastic. Very satisfied with his efforts, he decided not to waste any more ammo by going to full automatic - he would leave the rest of the phones where they were; maybe phones would never be used ever again.

He was interested to find a bank of luscious grass behind him, so he put the safety on the rifle and lay down for a sleep - who knew when he would be warm and dry again, so best to take the opportunity.

Before he dropped off, voices brought him back to a startled reality. Frozen against the bank of grass, he listened; it was casual chat between two men, not exactly on top of him, but nearby. He scanned all around him. Nothing there. Slowly he crept over the bank, seeing light through the undergrowth. Approaching at a crawl, Michael went to the light and peeked out. The two men could still be heard but had wandered away. Michael was faced with the fairway of a golf course; not a messy, cheapskate kind that he knew from back home, but a manicured, beautiful creation sweeping down to a white sand bunker arrangement, with a backdrop of more trees. He wondered about the now out of sight men - had they been on a round of golf? Would golf be played while something so extraordinary was happening? He supposed it was one of the simpler pastimes, so why not? Would he be welcome at the Club House?

Another moving figure caught his eye, maybe two hundred yards off to the left. It was a man, smoking a cigar, taking a stroll - taking a stroll because he was definitely not pulling a golf bag behind him. Michael wondered if he had stumbled upon an oasis, insulated from the chaos happening everywhere else. He watched the solitary man, deciding whether to approach him and ask about receiving assistance at the Golf Club. It would be better to find out that way, rather than walk in to a premises that might not want outsiders.

Michael was about to step up out of the tree line, cross the fairway and warmly accost the man with the cigar, when another figure came into view, a bit further back. Michael decided to wait, let one or the other move off. He watched the second man, who seemed to be following the first. Maybe they were talking; it was hard to tell at that distance. The second man also had no golf paraphernalia, but he was carrying something in front of him, turning it in his hands. Michael finally figured out that the man was screwing something into something else. Michael’s stomach rumbled. He would have to go back to his backpack at the bike if this situation didn’t resolve itself soon. But for some reason the second man fascinated Michael; he seemed to be stalking the first, only moving when cigar man moved. The thing he was carrying came down to his side in his right hand. Jesus Christ! thought Michael. It was a gun, and the thing being screwed on had been a bulbous silencer. A murder was about to happen. An execution. A bullet to the back of the head, right in front of him. Michael’s heart went ten to the dozen. Should he call out a warning? Should he rush into view? Or just slink away, ignore it as none of his business and get back on the road to his girlfriend? But he couldn’t drag himself away. And he couldn’t even raise a squeak, so horrified was he. He was an Englishman - murder did happen in England, but never in front of him, and never like a gangland execution. And, being an Englishman, he had an in-bred view on fair play. He could not let this abomination take place without doing anything about it. He reached for his rifle, searched for and aimed at the men. The assassin was close now. Michael thought of firing a warning shot, but knew that might not do the trick, it would just cause confusion, and the man could still pull the trigger. The killer was almost ready to raise the right arm and shoot. Michael focussed and fired three times at the would-be assassin.