The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling (11 page)

Albert! You need to rest, Albert. Just stay over there and record. Jayla and I can handle this...ok? Please, just sit down…

Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar help their leader to his feet. Slowly, all three stagger to the seat in front of the camera. Dr. Peacock is breathing in short and painful pants. His eyes are rolling in the back of his head as he tries to gain focus.

Dr. Leshay:

Ladies, please…We need you to get back to work. We’re not that far behind Dr. Peacock…Once we go, they will enter…

Dr. Bertrand:

We need a radio check.

Dr. Gunter:

I’m here.

Dr. Farziah:

I’m here.

Dr. Jones:

I’m good.

Dr. Nevins:

Yeah.

There is a pause. Someone is not responding.

Dr. Bertrand:

Marisol? Dr. Canas! Are you there? Oh no…computer, report the vitals of microphone seven.

The computerized voice responds:
There are no vital signs for microphone seven.
The other scientists react.
Grief
and
angry screams ring out
. Dr. Bertrand slams his fist against the shield of his weapons station.

Dr. Farziah:

Fools! We are all fools! We are sitting here in this building; and for what? So that those assholes out there may live, while we waste away. This is bullshit. This is all bullshit! I will never see my family again…they could be alive, they could be dead…I will never know. I stayed away from them, only to die like a roach inside a wall!

Dr. Bertrand:

Isam…you have to stay calm, man. We only have each other…we have to hold ourselves together. Not everyone out there deserves to die. We have to do this.

Dr. Farziah:

I’m just so tired…I am tired, man...And I want to go home. I just want this to be…

There is an explosion at the base of the building. The alarm goes off. It resonates throughout the chamber. The weapons of the gunning stations kick into action. Rapid fire is spewed to the ground below. The only discernible noise is explosion and gunfire. Eventually, a scientist yells above the chaos.

Dr. Nevins:

What the hell is going over there?!

Dr. Jones:

They’re firing from all directions! We can’t hold back everything! They’re…they’re targeting one area with missiles and are scattering our defenses!

The computerized voice announces throughout the chamber and in each gunning station:
Warning. The building is breached. Warning. The building is breached…
.
A flurry of crowd noise reaches the microphones of the gunners. Excited screams and gunfire travel from the courtyard below.

Dr. Leshay:

Oh my God…they are charging…thousands.

Dr. Bertrand:

The staircases…the staircases... Mark! We need you to collapse the staircases…hurry!

Dr. Jones:

Yeah! Move your ass, Mark! I can’t kill them all…hurry!

Dr. Gunter is running. He is breathing heavily as he makes his way to the south staircase. The gunfire continues from the gunning stations of Dr. Jones and Dr. Leshay. Dr. Farziah is firing an automatic weapon on the crowd below as well. It takes Dr. Gunter thirty seconds to reach his destination. He forces the door open and grunts as he positions something onto his shoulder. This is followed by a
shoomp
noise, and then there is a loud explosion. Dr. Gunter coughs profusely and tries to capture his breath.

Dr. Gunter:

Oh…oh…ok…that’s one!

Dr. Leshay:

They’re inside! They’re inside! Not a time to rest, Mark! Move it, man!

Dr. Gunter:

I’m on it…I’m on it…

Dr. Gunter runs to the north staircase. Dr. Dawar and Dr. Gates shriek in terror as both pause to listen to what’s going on. Dr. Peacock is asleep. His head has fallen onto the table; his snores are a scratching wheeze. Dr. Jones yells excitedly as he cuts down as many of the chargers as he can.

After twenty seconds, Dr. Gunter reaches his second destination. He kicks in the door. He is greeted by the sounds of an angry mob below. He is shot at on sight. Bullets bounce off the rails of the staircase. Unfazed, Dr. Gunter positions his weapon, the
shoomp
noise follows, and there is another powerful explosion. Dr. Gunter coughs and retreats from the staircase. There are murmurs and screams of agony through the debris below.

Dr. Gunter:

The staircases are secure!

A Tale of Two Cities

Once
off the bridge,
I was in Ironbound, the southeastern sectio
n of Newark. Before the pandemic
, Ironbound had a population of over three hundred thousand, and most of the residents in this part of town were of Brazilian and Portuguese descent.
It
was one of the many large ethnic communities throughout the city, and like the other sections of Newark, it was home, almost exclusively, to the middle and upper class
. Mostly, this was
due to the Municipal Explosion, the event when thirty-four states and thousands of municipal bodies across the United States declared bankruptcy.

Earlier in the century, well before I was born, the states, counties, cities and towns across the old Union were overburdened. They had to deal year after year after year with impossible operating expenses: never-ending lawsuits, an unfeasible health care system, crushing legacy obligations, overwhelming debt from banks and bondholders, exhausted taxpayers, and an ineffectual federal government. As a result, the only way out for the municipalities and the states, the only path available to a clean fiscal slate, was to declare insolvency and to restructure. Instead of conducting such an action a few government bodies at a time, they had all decided to go under simultaneously. And the results swept across the entire nation.

Laws
passed
that went against everything the great Republic had stood for. Suddenly, public unions were dissolved and outlawed, and their members were split into millions of private contractors. Bondholders and pensioners were left out in the cold. They were given measly settlements, and were told to either take it or leave it. Ironclad caps were placed on the amounts paid in litigation. Government property, public schools, and public universities were converted into private or charter institutions. And social programs for the poor, elderly, and disadvantaged were eliminated.

For many, this was a disaster unlike any that had come before. But for others, this was just the opportunity that was desperately needed. This event had stemmed from a period of low growth. The economy was flat. The Federal Reserve had used every money-manipulating trick in the book. The global economy had rendered America obsolete, overpriced and inflexible. And there was simply nothing for the investors to rally around.
But a
s the public sector caved in under its own weight, the pr
ivate sector had found an angle:
to rebuild American cities—better, stronger, more efficient, and more competitive than ever before.

The prevailing
opinion
was th
e big cities were rotten, crime-infested shells of what they used to be anyhow, and an overhaul was long overdue. For cities like New York, Newark, Philadelphia, Baltimore and a host of others, this was a golden chance at renewal.

Following a model that was successful in African and European cities, the middle class and wealthy—those who paid the most in taxes, as well as those who contributed the most to property value—were encouraged to move within the city limits.

Long tired of dealing with commuting, outrageous property taxes, flood-prone areas, and the less exciting suburban life, people relocated in droves.

As the new population poured in, so did the investment money. It was gentrification on steroids. Entire neighborhoods were taken over, razed to the ground, and rebuilt from scratch. Places such as East New York, the South Bronx, and Harlem of NYC and places such as Fairmont, Roseville, and Clinton Hill of Newark were completely remade. As a result, the cities had a higher tax base, relatively less crime, and a more efficient social system.

But the other side of the equation was the poor had to pour out. Housing authorities were handed over to private developers, affordable housing vouchers and building stipulations suddenly went extinct, and the rent was priced out of range for those who could hang on
,
on their own. The end result was the poor were only allowed to
work
in the great cities, and then they had to return to the surrounding towns they called home.

Of course, all of this didn’t happen without a fight or without consequences.

It was called “The War on the Working Class.”

The trial lawyers, advocacy groups, churches and unions howled to the moon. There were rapid-fire lawsuits. Local politicians were crucified at the polls. There were ripples of strikes and large demonstrations from coast to coast. There were even a few severe riots. And this did irreparable damage to the American image across the world.

But the power players behind all this were prepared.

Lawsuits were tossed due to the Municipal Reconstruction Act
,
constitutional amendments, and a rubber-stamp Supreme Court. Politicians were offered lucrative careers as consultants, and as members of the boards of various companies once their
sacrifice
was made, thus coining the famous term, “RD-Pol” (Revolving Door Politician).
Advocacy groups, unions and churches were targeted with a ruthless public relations campaign that vilified most as “the ones who are holding America back.” The demonstrations and riots were dealt with swiftly at the hands of the National Guard and Army. Five hundred were killed in the Newark riots alone. And in regard to the rest of the world’s opinion…well, the powers that be didn’t give a
rat’s ass
about the rest of the world’s opinion. America was being reinvented, the money was rolling in, and that was all that mattered. If it pissed some people off, then so be it.

The end result of all this, however, was that the United States became unrecognizable, from the inside out.

But by September 3, 2068, none of this mattered. The story of Newark was the same as New York and countless other cities. The government tried to maintain order. Order lasted a few days. Rioting, looting, and violent crime took over. People banded together to combat the violence and bury the dead. And it all went to hell once the power gave and the supplies ran out.

The townhouses, glass apartment complexes, business districts, and tree-lined public areas at the foot of the bridge were in ruins. I wandered through it all, and felt very much like the last person alive on Earth. There was no one around. If there were people anywhere near, they were doing an excellent job of not being seen by me.

***

It was the heart of the afternoon, and I was hungry and thirsty. While walking through Ironbound, I thought of the dead man’s bottle of water, and how I had left it behind.

Goddamnit…what was I thinking?

It wasn’t the hottest day—September is typically pleasant in the New York area—but it
was
hot enough to sap all the nourishment from the poor excuse of a breakfast I had had that morning.
Something had to be done
, I concluded.
And better sooner than later.

I exited Ferry Street and walked south down Adams Street. Each and every house in the neighborhood had been broken into. There was no telling how many people had passed through in the same state of hunger and thirst I was in. There was no telling how many people had seen the same houses I had seen, and were fortunate enough to see them first. The windows of the brick townhouses were broken. The front doors were kicked in. Houses with yards had appliances and other possessions too heavy to carry abandoned in front.

I continued my search from one street to the next, looking for that first break.

On the western side of Independence Park, I found it.

The wood-shingled houses along New York Avenue were intact. In other words, not blatantly broken into. The homes were certainly worth a shot.

My method for breaking into the homes was simple, and borrowed from what I had just seen. First, I knocked. Then I waited. And if there was no answer, I kicked down the damn door.

I
was
anxious
with
each invasion
. If someone was inside and this person had a gun—well, I likely would have received a bullet to the chest. But given the circumstances, it was the best option available.

The first two houses were emptied of food by the fleeing owners. In both homes, the cabinets were cleaned out, and the remaining items in the refrigerators were decomposed and musty.

However, i
t
wasn’t a complete bust.
There were a few things to be had. In the first house, I found a lighter, a compass, a very old Rand McNally road map of the United States, and pair of binoculars. In the second house, I found toothpaste, an unopened pack of tube socks, a deck of playing cards, a can opener, and a nice leather book bag.

And three
was the charm.

I kicked in the door, stumbled in, and was met with the smell of decay. Overwhelming decay. It nearly knocked me on my ass. Immediately, I rushed back outside to catch some fresh air. The smell of death is a potent odor in itself, but pent-up death, to an unsuspecting person—now
that
is some powerful shit!

For a moment I weighed the decision to go in or keep it moving, but hunger and cottonmouth swayed my choice toward the former. I took the toothpaste from the leather book bag and lined both of my nostrils (a trick I had learned from the militia). Then I went back inside.

The resident or residents of the house had died upstairs. Naturally, that part of the house was off limits. But downstairs, there was a wealth of nourishing food. All for the taking.

In the cabinets, there were cans of vegetables, corned beef, sardines, tuna and soup. There were packages of noodles, pasta, crackers, cookies and chips. There were bags of sug
ar, coffee beans, powdered milk
and oatmeal. And on the floor under the kitchen counter,
I found
a dozen bottles of pure, virgin water.

In addition to the blessed food and water, there was soap, a roll of toilet tissue, sterling silverware, a tiny solar radio, and many other things that I needed.
Thank you, dead people upstairs! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I ditched the pair of socks, found two additional bags throughout the house, and stuffed all four bags to capacity. It was a heavy load, but it was a heavy load of
hell yes!

Once I was satisfied, I went to the backyard of the house. There was a small plastic table at the right corner of the patio, with matching chairs stacked to the side. I took a chair, sat down, and quickly drank a couple of bottles of water. I also popped a Chunky beef soup
,
and I ate directly from the can.

***

Once my hunger and thirst were taken care of, I left the house and neighborhood, and continued south on Frelinghuysen Avenue, a desolate road flanked by abandoned auto repair shops.

Trash and dog shit
littered
the street. The pavement was hot from the bright sun overhead. And I was nervous. I had the four bags full of food and supplies. To a desperate person I would have made
a
very
tempting target. I kept my hand close to my gun at all times.

Eventually, I was adjacent to the Elizabeth/Newark commuter bus
depot. Before the pandemic
, hundreds upon hundreds of little buses used to park here w
hen the operators’ shifts had ended
. Every day the operators used to board their buses with an assistant. Then the two used to pick up passengers in Elizabeth, NJ, and take them according to whatever route they were assigned.

A few sad and broken down buses were still in the lot.

Newark Airport was on the opposite side. And the place was barren. It was a concrete desert, a gray and flat landscape that probably hadn’t seen a plane in well over a month. There was a network of highways and monorails, a tower, and an oval-shaped terminal port; and all were quiet and uninhabited in the distance.

There were advertisements along the way to Elizabeth, NJ, and they were posted to either side of the road on large, old-fashioned billboards. Most of the billboards in East America were electronic, and had ceased functioning. The billboards along this walk, however, were a pleasant and welcome distraction. Some were downright entertaining.

One
sign had pictures of a smiling B
lack nanny, a Hispanic commuter bus driver, and a White sanitation worker. The message underneath said:

Rooms and Apartments for Rent!

Starting at only EAD30

Call Marquis Realty @ 973-555-0001

In the next advertisement, there was a group of teenagers. They were leaving a school, smiling, looking as if they were the best of friends. The message underneath said:

Budda Boy Smokes, enjoy the in-crowd

Get a pack for the low price of EAD.75

EAD2.40 per carton @ your local retailer

I laughed out loud when I saw the
next
advertisement. The sign displayed a group of middle-aged White males. They were sitting together at a dark table in a very dark room. They had the goofiest expressions on their faces. The message underneath said: