Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse (3 page)

In Connecticut, Michael Clavell cycled by dozens and dozens of stranded vehicles - so many that it stopped being strange any more. He was pretty sure he was heading south, although the map he had used to get himself up there from New York had been left in the hire car. Many times he stopped to rest. He had thought he was fit; clearly not. In his bag there had been mineral water and biscuits, but those provisions were long gone and he was getting a bit desperate. He talked to a couple of people, who stood with their dead cars, but they clearly knew even less than him about the situation. At one point, he picked on a family with the hope of getting something to eat. What he found, once he got up close, however, disturbed him greatly. The two adults and the one teenage girl, ignoring their broken-down vehicle and the chaos around them, just stood about bewailing the failure of their cell phones. They were waving them around, crying, gesticulating at other people on the highway, aiming the devices at the sun as if in some prehistoric ritual.

Michael cycled on, immediately relieved to hit a town - although American towns differed to English towns; instead of coming to the centre straightaway he found that it was spread out for miles, with detached properties, and all the streets seemed to be overly wide. It was like being on the moon. Finally, he found something that resembled a shopping area, with a small mall, containing a pizzeria on one side of the road and a free-standing convenience store and gas station on the other. People milled about sporadically. It was weird to be in a town that was so quiet. He headed to the store, where he dismounted, with his thighs feeling blown up to twice their normal size. People were in discussion outside the store. Michael gave them a wide berth and went inside. The owners were an Asian couple, trying to explain to several people that they could not sell anything at that exact moment in time as their tills were down. Without hesitation, Michael shoplifted two packets of cakes and stepped back outside. He wolfed down two of the cakes while listening to the nearby talk, which told him nothing new. Electro-magnetic pulse was one man’s suggestion, while another was certain that solar flares were responsible. Michael thought they were both the same phenomenon, but he wasn’t sure. Someone asked how long the blackout would last.

Michael walked his bike away and sat down on a low wall, finishing the cakes. That was when fear hit him. He wished he had never left his girlfriend in New York, and wondered how he was going to get back there. Could he cycle there? That thought sounded insane in his head. Was she safe and okay? How was she dealing with this? He hoped she was still in their hotel and had not gone to the au pair interview.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked a passing man, ‘could you tell me where this place is? The name of this town?’

‘This is Wethersfield.’

‘Thank you.’

Wethersfield. That made him think of the fictional Weatherfield, the setting for the British television soap
Coronation Street
, or more precisely, about his mother who watched that show religiously. He felt a rage of fear for her, and also shame for not being there, wondering if the power was still on at home.

He needed a new map and considered going back into the store. As a child he had shoplifted, back home in Brighton, but he had never returned to the scene of the crime within ten minutes. This time he leant the bike up against the shop window and went back inside. The shop owners had decided to start selling their bread and bottled water anyway, so Michael picked up a loaf and a six-pack of mineral water and joined a queue. When it was his turn he paid what they asked for, not really sure if they were profiteering or not. He asked for a map. The Asian lady handed him one, but before he could pay she was on to the next excitable customer, so Michael left the store.

He found his bike gone. He didn’t know how he felt about that. With a shrug he walked back to his wall, slaked his thirst, and perused his map. He suddenly felt extremely fatigued, more so from the trauma of the day than the actual physical exertion. Getting back to New York; he gave it considered, rational, detailed thought and came to the conclusion, in all probability, that he was buggered. And now he had a local mongrel dog sniffing at his ankles. He moved to shoo the animal away, but it was on a leash and already being pulled clear by its pretty, young lady owner.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

It was only one word but Michael felt that she was not American. She was playing with her dead phone. She then sat beside him as if they were friends and pulled the dog to sit between her legs.

‘Is it driving you nuts?’ he asked, indicating the phone.

‘A bit. But I thought I would just check it again. Do you know what’s happened?’

Michael shook his head. She was a brunette, about twenty-one, and very tanned - so much so that her perfect teeth seemed very bright when she spoke.

‘Yes, I know I’m orange,’ she said. ‘It’s not fake tan, I just overdid it during the last hot spell.’

It was close to an Australian accent, but not quite, so he guessed at New Zealand. ‘Are you a Kiwi?’

‘I’m an Aussie, mate. You a Pom?’

‘Yeah. Sorry, I’m usually good with accents.’

‘Maybe I’ve lost it a bit, living here.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m a kindergarten teacher. I started in Boston, drifted out this way. You?’

‘I’m on a cycling holiday.’

She crinkled her eyebrows at him but didn’t press him on the matter. She stroked the dog’s head as they watched people aimlessly moving along the street. The only topic of conversation between the American youth of Wethersfield was the failure of their phones and tablets.

‘I’m Michael.’

‘Molly.’

They shook hands, awkwardly.

‘Molly, can I ask you a favour? Any chance of you feeding me?’

‘What do you fancy?’

‘I’m not fussy. A sandwich, sliced diagonally, without the crusts. No, no, I’m joking. Anything and a beer would be great. Just while I figure out what I’m going to do.’

‘Come on, then.’ They stood. ‘My apartment’s not far. Where’s your bike?’

‘It was stolen.’

‘
Really
?’

‘Yeah.’ He followed Molly and the dog. ‘It cost me a thousand dollars. I loved that bike.’

***

Nineteen-year-old Taylor Harrison did feel sorry for the bride but, like catering workers the world over, she was secretly pleased with the power failure and the chance to stand around for an hour while management tried to resolve the issue. She hated her boss, so was delighted that the woman was running about like a headless chicken, attempting to rescue two hundred and fifty steak dinners.

Taylor stood at the gate of a courtyard, behind the kitchens, listening to the chefs curse and bang pans about, while sipping a soft drink through a straw and looking out over the golf course of the Fletcher Ridge Country Club in Connecticut. Her work friends, Paula and Kacie, were there with her, talking about boys. There was a rumour going around that all cell phones were not working, but as the waitresses’ phones were in their lockers it couldn’t be corroborated at that exact moment in time. Taylor checked her nails, adjusted her brunette ponytail, then smoothed down her apron. There was a smell of smoke in the air, she noticed, perhaps the management resorting to barbecue for the wedding food. Taylor lived in the staff quarters of the Club, worked quite a lot of hours between attending college. She hailed from Scranton, Ohio, the only child of dysfunctional, estranged, parents, so she rarely went back there. At the moment she was single, although not short of admirers and offers.

She watched a group of golfers coming in off the course. She recognised Mr Ferguson, with his cronies. Ferguson was always extremely polite when being served in the restaurant or the bar, but spent far too much time at the Club to be a legitimate businessman. Taylor thought he was a gangster of some kind. As they got close, the sun bounced off Ferguson’s shaven head. He was a strong-looking man in his late forties, always immaculately dressed. He was laughing at something. Then he stopped and his group looked to their left. Taylor followed where they were gazing. Silently, almost in slow motion, a large helicopter was coming down in a spin. Taylor’s hand went to her mouth as the helicopter hit the ground with a terrible thud, throwing up earth like a meteor strike, breaking into three pieces and then bursting into flames. Instantly it was a fireball, not more than five hundred yards from where they all were. One of Taylor’s friends screamed, one of Ferguson
’
s colleagues started running towards the crash, before realising there was no point. Ferguson decided to enter the club through this staff area, the sooner to get into his car and leave before the police swamped the place. He locked eyes with Taylor briefly, and she saw that he wasn’t in shock like everyone else, then he was leading his people through the onrushing chefs and waiters, who were coming to see what had happened.

In the Springsteens’ office, Charlie McAlister woke up on a leather sofa, her head hurting, but when she put her hand up, she found what felt like a bandage in place. Instinctively, she reached for her phone in her back pocket, and was horrified to find that it refused to turn on. At least she could caress her
One Direction
phone cover, and run her little finger lovingly over her beloved Harry Styles’ hair. She had loved the boy band since they were put together on
The
X-Factor,
in the UK, and knew they were currently in America at the same time as she was, which had been a great source of happiness to her. As the happenings of earlier in the day filtered back to her conscious mind, she hoped desperately that Harry and the boys were all right.

It was a gloomy afternoon in a stormy New York City. Charlie sat up slowly. She panicked slightly at being alone, until she heard voices coming up the stairs and recognised Mr and Mrs Springsteen, who had looked after her earlier.

‘You’re awake, honey,’ said Lulu Springsteen, smiling, though she looked strained. ‘We were just going up onto the roof to look around. Do you feel up to joining us?’

‘Yes. Thank you. How long have I been asleep?’

‘Only a few hours.’

Charlie went with them up two flights of stairs and David led them out onto the roof. Charlie enjoyed the electrically-charged air. She looked about her. They were fairly surrounded by larger buildings, but there were lines of sight off into the distance, to places which, of course, she couldn’t put a name to. What was obvious were the fires and smoke plumes everywhere. Also, hundreds of little vehicles, which you would expect to be zipping about freeways, sat stationary, some even burning. The Springsteens embraced each other. Charlie felt like joining them.

‘So, the power’s still off?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes,’ answered David.

‘But how can a power failure affect the cars?’

‘That’s what’s worrying. How’s your head?’

‘It just stings. Thank you for bandaging me.’

‘Oh, that was Elaine, the dentist from next door. She patched you up when she came to check on us.’

‘I must thank her.’

They watched the fascinating scene for a few minutes more.

‘Right, let’s eat,’ said David.

Charlie followed them down to their office. She recognised the young man who worked for the Springsteens, and the older man who ran the foyer; both waved to her. Lulu made Charlie sit down.

‘We’ve got soup and sandwiches,’ Lulu told her. Charlie urgently wanted to discuss the situation. ‘No, no, have something to eat first, then we’re all going to talk it through, okay.’

***

In Salem, Liam and the others from the ship were sitting, exhausted, on a patch of grass, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee from polystyrene cups. The police officer had left them in the hands of his cousin, who was organising refreshments. They weren’t talking, now that they fully understood what was happening - it was just too big to take in. All of them were far from home and worried about loved ones, although Allison seemed more concerned with the quality of her sandwich.

‘Well?’ Allison suddenly asked of no-one in particular.

Liam felt like asking, “Are you still here, you moaning bitch?” but he just said, ‘What do you want us to say?’

‘Do we just stay here, or do we keep moving?’

‘You want to keep walking?’ asked Gus.

‘No, I don’t particularly want to keep walking, but what’s here for us?’

Julius finished his sandwich and slapped his big hands together. ‘What’s anywhere for us?’

Liam got up onto his haunches, while he watched the people and took in the town surroundings. ‘Hey, who’s to say this isn’t a temporary thing. Power might come back later today. There might be chaos for a while, but we can get where we need to be. We can either stay here for a day or two, or walk to the next town. Are we planning on sticking together?’

‘I stay with you,’ said Sabrina, immediately.

‘Julius?’ asked Liam.

‘If the plan is to move towards Boston,’ said Julius, ‘then New York, then, yeah, stay together. Safety in a group.’

Allison turned her gaze to Julius. ‘Are we in any danger?’

‘Hell, miss, power’s out. No police car is moving anywhere fast. I reckon there will be looting soon, if not already.’

Gus said, ‘Maybe we should stay here then. Small town with police who know everyone.’

They lapsed into silence, enjoying the rest. Liam’s mind was ticking over, deciding what to do for the best. He didn’t want Allison with them, but he couldn’t just abandon the woman. Gus was a bit useless, and Sabrina young and emotional, but Julius was a big, strong man who should know the area.

‘What about this?’ said Liam, ‘Stay here tonight. Then gather supplies and directions, and head on tomorrow morning. If we stay here we won’t be anyone’s guests, we’ll be expected to get involved with clearing up the plane crashes, maybe burying bodies.’ That made sense to everyone. ‘Everyone remain here, I’ll go and enquire about where we can sleep.’

***

Michael liked where he was spending the night. It was the top floor apartment of an old clapboard house in a lovely area of Wethersfield. The Australian girl, Molly, had given the owners of the house their dog back and told them what information she had gathered. The very polite Englishman, Michael, was introduced, his circumstances explained and given permission to stay for the night before he moved on in the morning.

So Molly asked him to make himself comfortable in her living area while she threw together something for him to eat.

‘The beer?’ he asked, cheekily.

She laughed, ‘Oh, sorry,’ and got him a bottle. ‘So, what’s your plan, then?’

‘I need to get to New York. That’s where my girlfriend is.’

‘New York? You’re kidding? Have you any idea how far that is?’

‘What’s my alternative? Frankly, I’m scared shitless with what seems to be happening.’

‘I’m sure news will come through soon. The government must be doing something about it.’

‘Are you thinking I should sit tight until the situation improves? I’m a bit too edgy for that. I like to get on with things.’

After using a match to light the gas stove, she provided him with a good-looking omelette, with side salad, then sat down next to him while he tucked in. They talked about where home was; she came from a place called Bundaberg in Queensland. She only had her mother alive, with one elder sister, and was very worried for them. Hopefully the trouble was consigned to the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.

‘I’d show you a picture of home, but the photos are on my phone.’

‘Never mind,’ he teased.

The lady of the house was calling Molly from downstairs. ‘I’ll just see.’

Michael finished his meal, then sat back with his beer. In another time and place he would have thought he had “landed on his feet” there - lovely girl, great apartment. Yes, he now felt guilty and annoyed to have been up in Connecticut, but he really was missing his girlfriend, who was a lovely person as well as being simply gorgeous. He felt he should do the honourable thing and get back to New York as soon as possible.

Molly reappeared, with a handful of candles. ‘They do look after me.’

‘So, no telly tonight. What’s it to be, playing cards by candlelight?’

‘If you’re lucky. What’s your full name? Michael what?’

‘Clavell.’

‘Clavell like the author?’

‘If you say so. What about you?’

‘Molly Windup.’

Michael almost choked on his omelette. ‘Wind-up? Sorry.’

‘No, it’s pronounced Win-dup.’

Michael burst out laughing, hysterically. ‘Win-dup! Sorry.’ He continued to laugh.

Molly sat there impassively, not offended in the least. It wasn’t like it was the first time that had happened.

***

Taylor Harrison found herself serving cold drinks to everyone and anyone, regardless of whether they were with the wedding or not. Her hated boss, Mrs Flynn, no longer had to worry about a few undercooked steaks, she had a full blown disaster on her hands. A power failure was unfortunate; it might warrant a few lines in the hotel trade press, but for a wedding banquet to be cancelled due to a helicopter crashing in the grounds, well, that was national news. Now, every car in the car park refused to start, stranding disgruntled guests and club members alike. To compound the misery, the General Manager was off on holiday, so she was left with his useless deputy, a man called Fassbender, who suddenly seemed to have a lot to do in his office, leaving her to face the music. The final straw was the failure of all forms of communication, making them unable to contact the emergency services. So, sandwiches were going around on platters, and the soft drinks were being exhausted.

She noticed Taylor nearby. ‘Keep it going, Taylor. When everyone’s been fed we might be able to take stock of the situation.’

‘What’s happening, Mrs Flynn?’

‘Damned if I know.’

Taylor moved away, catching the eye of Kacie, with a sandwich platter. Two wedding guests took drinks from her, then she offered her tray to some gentlemen who stood looking out through the main doorway. One of them was Mr Ferguson. He had changed into a suit and looked as dapper as always. Now he knew the police were not rushing there he could relax.

‘Is that just orange juice, my dear?’ he asked Taylor.

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Well, that is just what’s needed right now. Thank you so much.’

His friend was equally polite, taking a glass. Creeped out for some reason, Taylor decided to go to the kitchens for a fresh tray, and take her time about it.

***

At the residential complex on Long Island, security guard, Steven Ziegler, spent the afternoon talking to people, whether they were members of the public or home-owners walking down from their properties to seek official contact about the situation. Ziegler had enjoyed the feeling of importance. Reactions were fairly similar across the board
:
consternation and worry. A number of people were upset at the loss of mobile technology, and one man was inconsolable to be without the internet.

The man who crashed his Jaguar into the bus had spoken to Ziegler as he walked back to his house. His name was  Ivanovic, a tough man in his late thirties. He was sweating after helping to push his car clear of the bus.

‘Hello, sir,’ said Ziegler, ‘Would you like a towel, I have one in the booth?’

‘No, thank you.’ He paused to look back. ‘The bus driver foolishly thinks he’ll be carrying on with his route.’

‘Have you any idea what’s caused this, sir?’

Ivanovic turned and looked at Ziegler. ‘It’s the end of the world, my friend. The end of the world.’