Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse (9 page)

At the Country Club, Ferguson’s men had started to walk about with automatic weapons over their shoulders, after a number of incursions by undesirable gangs of men, no doubt looking to loot the impressive leisure development. To Taylor and Kacie it was just another sign of the world gone mad. The men were still polite to everyone, although there was clearly a new order in place.

One dewy morning, before the usual exercise walk through the woods, everyone was called out onto the front lawns for a meeting. There was a small wall on the edge of the driveway, inlaid with the Club plaque, and behind which came the poles for the Club flag and the Stars and Stripes. It was on here that Ferguson stood up to address them all.

‘What the hell now?’ whispered Kacie to her friend.

Taylor nudged her to be quiet, then was disturbed within herself at how worried she had felt for her friend’s loose tongue. She looked about her, at the faces all around, people still at ease, apart from being unshaven or without make-up, some a little tired and fed-up. She pulled Kacie protectively against her and strained to see what Ferguson wanted now.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ began Ferguson. He still looked groomed, his suit crisp in the morning sun. Taylor thought that his teeth looked whiter, but surely that was a trick of the light. As Ferguson started to throw himself into a speech, Taylor tuned out.

***

Lulu Springsteen was naturally overjoyed to be reunited with her sons, giving them round the clock love and attention. Ana, the au pair, became virtually redundant, but was made to enjoy the time off and live like a house guest. She and Charlie hit it off straightaway and spent a lot of time together, with Jonathan always included if he wanted to be. There were also Mr Stickford’s two teenage daughters, Cristina and Roxy. Completing the enclave were Mr and Mrs Grainger, and a young, unmarried couple, Peyton and Louise Cross, with their little boy, Ben. All meals were taken at the Grainger household, with Mr Grainger using his barbecue and camping skills to great effect. The extraordinary thing about Stewart Grainger, apart from his mother naming him after the English film star from the 1950s, was that, at the age of fifty-five, he had decided to become a Prepper. In other words, he prepared for an event such as this, for an apocalypse. He tended to avoid the word zombie, and preferred to base his fears on the incompetence of politicians and bankers; his basement was stocked with food and other basic supplies. He had various weapons at his disposal. Out back, there was a generator, which had proved to be useless, but he had not anticipated this kind of particularly strange power failure hitting them.

Everyone gathered for the evening meal, sitting on the Graingers’ back porch. It was burgers (on buns for the last time) with baked potato and various beverages. Charlie and Ana found something about their previous lives to chat about. Jonathan talked automatic weapons with Mr Grainger, while the older man flipped the burgers, everyone else sat talking, watching the children play. It was a beautiful evening on Long Island. It was almost possible to forget the strange situation. No doubt that would have to be challenged in the coming days, though.

***

The food was great in Mr Ivanovic’s house, Danielle thought. The woman introduced as Ivanovic’s “chef” never seemed to leave the kitchen, just kept coming up with nice delicacies like stuffed peppers or garlic dough balls or small portions of fried chicken and rice. And all the neighbours who were gathered in the very large house seemed decent people, talking freely, occasionally trying to solve the mysterious event, or just talking about more domestic matters. It was Ivanovic who unnerved Danielle. He reminded her of that cab driver who had tried to rape her - all friendly chat, but with sly little glances all the time. And that cretin in the security guard uniform, Ziegler, annoyed her too, with the way he deferred to Ivanovic before he did anything, before he even made himself a drink. Also, the way he looked at her creeped her out.

There had been a lot of talk about safety in numbers, about pooling resources, community spirit. Mostly Ivanovic had been doing the talking. Danielle had expected to be in Elaine’s house, doing her bit through the crisis, but not to be a number in some kind of ad-hoc commune. Kat was just happy to be clean, fed and rested, talking with the woman who should be living next door, but who “felt safer with Mr Ivanovic”. It was Elaine who caught Danielle’s eye - she recognised the weird set-up too.

Danielle counted nine people in total in the house. From what she could gather they mostly came from the neighbouring properties. With that in mind, she got up and went outside to have a look around. Most of the houses were of similar design, but two had swimming pools. On one of the drives there sat her all-time favourite car: an Audi TT, in silver, and it broke her heart to think she would never drive one. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could get some guys to push the TT to the top of a hill so she could navigate it down. But with her luck the power steering would lock and she would crash to her fiery death.

As she wandered the grassy areas between properties, she thought of her parents, and her sister, of her boyfriend. Suddenly melancholic, she thought of the boyfriend before the current one, and the one before him, who had robbed the local bookmakers and was probably still locked up - she shrugged; now, these days, that was certainly hard prison time. She told herself to snap out of it. Think of nice things. Number one nice thought, of course, was Harry Styles. Deep in the pit of her stomach she prayed that he was safe.

Over the next few days, Danielle found out about all the people she was staying with. It started with Mr Ivanovic, who made a point to tell her what he used to do for a living, which was to own a string of dry cleaning companies in the New York area. She got the feeling he wanted her to be impressed, and it took her a moment to see that he was talking about wealth, not particularly dry cleaning. She feigned interest, before finding a way to move away from the conversation. She had already gathered that Stephen Ziegler was the security guard from the estate, and that he was a bit of an idiot. Like Ivanovic, Ziegler stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. So she hung around with Kat as much as possible. The other people seemed very nice, ranging from the retired Mrs Ikin, through Mr and Mrs Miller, who ran a bookbinding and picture framing business from home, to the young teenager, Jacob, who had missed college on that fateful day, and who was still unaware of what had happened to his family after they left for work. She had also met Ivanovic’s cook/housekeeper, who worked in the Millers’ kitchen as if nothing in the world had changed, and even slept on a camp bed in their utility room. Danielle had tried to talk to the woman called Pam, but there was no real interest from her in making friends. The fact that the woman was black disturbed Danielle - it was like there was a slave on the property. But there was nothing practical she could do to change the situation.

One morning, Danielle regretted not having Kat outside with her, as Ivanovic came up to her and asked if she would like to see his car. She felt flummoxed, in a mental quandary thinking about being invited to see a man’s “etchings” and the fact that cars were redundant now.

‘Come on,’ encouraged Ivanovic, ‘it really will be of interest to you.’

So, hiding her reluctance, she went with him to his house, which was larger than the Millers’, making her wonder why they didn’t all move in there.

‘I’ve had to break the garage doors,’ said Ivanovic, as they went up his drive to the double-garage. ‘They only worked on a remote control.’

‘Right,’ said Danielle, keen to get it over with.

Ivanovic hauled up one of the wooden doors and propped it open with a pole. At first, Danielle could see parts of a car spread around on the concrete floor, then the green shell of a racing car was illuminated.

‘It’s a Jaguar XJ13, from 1966,’ explained Ivanovic. ‘I’ve always wanted a Jaguar. I came to the US for business reasons, but I wanted to live in London. Live like a real Englishman.’ He giggled, which was odd for such a rough looking man. ‘With an English wife.’

‘Right,’ said Danielle, again. ‘The car’s a beautiful shape, Mr Ivanovic.’

It was, indeed, beautiful, and curvy, in British Racing Green - a work of art, even in pieces.

‘You are a beautiful shape, Danielle, if I am allowed to say so.’

‘That’s very nice of you, Mr Ivanovic. But, you know…’

‘Yes, I know, terrible times. But when things are strange…’

Ivanovic then kissed Danielle, with her in his arms so she couldn’t pull away. When he was done he let her go. Danielle was livid. In normal times she would have slapped his face, but precisely because the world was how it was, she hesitated, quite lost. She was annoyed with herself for not reacting immediately like the old Danielle.

‘I expected to be struck,’ said Ivanovic. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. You didn’t have to hold back from striking me because of the way things are…’

Danielle slapped him harder than any man she had ever slapped before, and there had been four in total, for various misdemeanours. With her face flushed and her hand now hurting, she stormed off, leaving the man there. Ivanovic touched his cheek, not too concerned, obviously having been hit harder in his life.

Michael observed many people moving about on the streets of New Haven. It was inevitable that someone would emerge from a looted building, or from around a corner, and he would come face to face with them - be forced to communicate in some fashion. When it eventually happened, it was a middle-aged woman in combat gear and black beanie hat, although unarmed, stepping from the shattered front window of a Delicatessen with a big bag. Michael looked at her as if she was an alien. A friendly smile formed on the woman’s face, yet Michael was so drained and stressed he didn’t even want to deal with that. He just kept moving, giving her a wide berth.

‘There’s still food in there,’ offered the woman. 'if you want, mister.’

Michael kept walking, keeping his eyes on her, so she shrugged and went on with her own plans. Michael paused, until he knew she had gone away, then doubled back, stepped inside, onto the crystallised glass, and quickly found various cuts of meat. He quickly fed himself, then actually picked up a store bag and filled it, adding several jars of olives and the like.

Back on his journey through New Haven, his close encounter with the woman had reminded him of the perilous state of affairs, so he brought the rifle out and carried it in front of him, still imagining it was ready to shatter at the next time of firing. The pastrami, or whatever it was, had cheered him up immeasurably. He was looking around for a sports store, thinking about acquiring a bicycle again - it was the only sensible way to progress westward.

There were many burnt out cars, and several buildings on fire or smouldering away. But nothing had really horrified him yet - he had expected to wander into a street with a dozen corpses hanging from the street lamps - that was what the movies had done to him. Then one particular street did distress him, seeing two dead bodies on the sidewalk. At first he considered retracing his steps, but then told himself that he would only come across similar things on a different route. So he pressed on. Dried blood across the sidewalk, empty shotgun shells, another two corpses, more obviously riddled with bullets. He felt his heart speed up, walking into where a gun battle had taken place, maybe the night before, frightened that the assailants were still about. There was a car with bullet holes all along the side panels, very much an image from the movies. Another dead man on the road in front of that, a pistol nearby. Michael’s brain urged him to get beyond this place, and he increased his pace, until he came across a huddle of lifeless bodies. These people seemed fairly mature, not what he would expect to be getting involved in street fighting, in normal times, for sure. Now Michael was ready to jog on, until one of the bodies caught his attention. Clearly, the man had been a fireman, judging from his clothing. The automatic rifle in his hands was obviously superior to his own rifle. Quickly he threw away his own weapon, took up the fireman’s, wordlessly thanked him, and got the hell off that street.

***

Late in the afternoon, Liam, Sabrina and Allison left the BMW showroom and headed off towards the shoreline. There was not a soul about, giving rise to feelings of apocalypse within Liam - it really was quite eerie on the streets. Had Boston been evacuated, he thought? His Uzi was tucked inside the loosened belt of his trousers, with the safety on. He still carried the tent, but now he had Sabrina’s hand in his. She had claimed him as they left the showroom, and it seemed perfectly normal to stay like that.

The wind came in off the ocean, blowing Sabrina’s hair against him, intoxicating him. He looked back at Allison, who was now sporting a BMW M3 baseball cap. She was not carrying the stove. The showroom was too far away by then - had she deliberately decided to leave it behind? He saw no point in mentioning it. They were almost at the nearest, non-descript, two-storey buildings, with a number of speedboats and yachts bobbing about in the water beyond. Perhaps the buildings were boat-sheds or tackle shops - anything nautical was a mystery to him, despite the fact that he had rowed onto the American shore.

He released Sabrina’s hand, dropped the tent, and brought out the Uzi. Then he made sure Allison was up close behind them, before he turned the corner and scouted out the front of the buildings. All seemed quiet, with abandoned vehicles everywhere. It was then he wondered how many people had sailed out of Boston since the event started, and where had they gone to. The buildings turned out to be  workshops and offices. There was nobody there. Liam had a view along the shoreline, to the houses that might provide those much needed supplies. Both girls had agreed to his plan to rest up for a couple of days. If the houses proved fruitless, he would take the risk and enter the hotel - surely that would have supplies.

First, they needed to investigate these buildings, and maybe the nearest sailing ships. In they trailed, to a bare workshop. The only option was a set of wooden stairs, up to a potential living area.

‘You sure about this?’ whispered Allison.

‘If the owner was caught away when it started,’ he replied in a hushed tone, ‘what’s his is now ours.’

They ascended slowly, passing a window which showed a different angle on the city of Boston. The door at the top was closed. Liam gestured for them to stay back down on the stairs. He tried the handle with his free hand. The door opened a fraction. No sound. He pushed it with the Uzi, opening it all the way. From beneath him a shape suddenly pounced, violently, rabidly, with a shock of noise, forcing him to fall backwards in panic. All together in a rush; Allison screamed, the mad Alsation went for Liam’s throat and Liam squeezed the trigger on the Uzi. Bullets spurted into the walls, the ceiling and into the Alsation on his chest, about to bite with vicious, slavering jaws, until it squealed pitifully and ceased to threaten. With his heart almost exploding, Liam got the animal off him to the side, bounced up, ready for any other threat, scanning the room.

Liam stood there, breathing heavily. Sabrina came up and held him from behind.

‘I’m all right,’ he said.

He looked at the dead dog, stepped beyond it into the room. There was a small bathroom adjoining - there was his first hanging man. A nude, big man hanged by a belt in the shower. Clearly the Alsation had been guarding its master. Liam turned quickly to keep Sabrina from viewing the scene, guiding both girls downstairs.

Liam checked the Uzi. After its burst of firing he had felt that it stopped prematurely. He gestured for the girls to be aware of what he was doing, and tried to shoot the gun into the sky. As he thought: jammed. He tried again, to no avail. Giving it no more thought, he placed the weapon on the ground, taking out his pistol before leading on.

He didn’t want to try any more of these industrial premises, especially not with the girls in tow. That made him look at the boats. It made sense to get them hidden away somewhere, before he did some scavenging on his own.

‘It will be dark soon,’ said Sabrina, pressing herself up against him.

That made Liam reconsider his plans. He had to check these premises. There was no way he could let some fox see in which boat he placed his birds before he went wandering off. Next along was an ice cream parlour, all shuttered and locked. Then a café/shop, which had been broken into and stripped bare. Another flight of stairs beckoned them. This time he made the girls stay where they were. His careful investigations found an empty apartment, a bit grimy, but they could stay there until dark, and then slip aboard one of the boats. The little kitchen offered some packets of supplies and a six-pack of Budweiser. There was a razor and various toiletries in the bathroom. The bed was unmade and unwelcoming, but beggars could not be choosers. He paused, the apartment did have a damp smell, but that couldn’t be helped.

‘I’m not staying in here. It stinks!’

Liam spun to face Allison. ‘I told you to stay downstairs!’

‘A boat would be better than this.’

Liam looked out the window. There were three white yachts bobbing about in the shadow of a larger vessel - they could run and jump into one of them without being clearly observed from land.

‘Right!’ he said, finding Sabrina on the stairs, looking doe-eyed up at him, ‘Miss Davies here finds these premises not up to her high standards. So, we’re going into a boat right now. Sabrina, collect up any food downstairs. Allison, bring what you can find in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Allison, sarcastically.

‘And don’t forget the Budweiser!’

At the door, Liam savoured a breeze off the sea. Suddenly he was very tired. He rubbed his eyes and took some deep breaths. With his gun at the ready, he sensed the girls join him, then led them quickly across the open ground, along a pier. Once they had the larger vessel looming over them from the right, fairly covered from the shore, he looked at the three small yachts.
Maria,
the name on the stern of one, seemed a friendly enough name.

‘In!’ he said. ‘In this one, quick.’

‘No!’ said Allison.

‘This one, here! What, why?’

Allison made him aware of the shotgun poking out at them from down in
Maria
’s cabin.