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After my morning trip to the roof with Zeke, I got a call from my boss. The company had decided that everything would be placed on hold, and we wouldn’t be working during the quarantine. Relieved not to have to go to that hotbox of contagion, I turned on a movie. I kept a running commentary for Zeke. He was a great listener.
At noon, I poured a glass of my favorite Sancerre and turned on the news. I sat through reports about rising death counts, Red Cross efforts, and interviews with city officials. When the screen changed to a static image stating “Breaking News,” I turned up the volume and leaned forward.
A male newscaster came on the screen with his finger to his earpiece as if he were receiving instructions. His eyes darted to the camera. “This is Dave Abrams from CNBC News. We come to you live now from the financial district in lower Manhattan, where our own anchor Lindsay Ballard is currently quarantined. Lindsay, what are you seeing?”
The screen switched to a shaky cell phone video. The camera showed the outside of a building with people looking down to the street from the balconies. Car alarms, the sound of breaking glass, and distant screams and chants told the story of the obvious chaos coming from below.
“Dave, I’ve been in my apartment since yesterday morning without incident.” Lindsay had raised her tremulous voice to be heard over the din. “But half an hour ago, that changed. A small group of people left their homes and began protesting the quarantine. Their chants drew others out to join them. The group has now risen to as many as fifteen or twenty.”
Lindsay was breathing heavily as the camera moved forward a couple of feet then tilted downward over a railing, probably on the fifth or sixth floor of her building. People darted back and forth on the street. A man was smashing a lock on a metal gate covering a storefront. The lock broke, and he pulled the gate up. He picked up a metal trashcan and threw it through the large front window, causing an alarm to blare loudly.
Lindsay’s cell phone jumped, then she got the storefront centered on the screen again. People climbed through the new opening, heedless of the glass shards. Seconds later, some ran out with their arms full of electronics, clothing, and household items. A few yards away, two men were trying to pull a woman’s grocery cart away from her. They managed to rip it out of her hands, and she fell backward onto the asphalt as they ran off.
Several men were walking down the street, wielding bats, yelling, and smashing cars as they went. Something exploded nearby, and the cell phone wobbled. Lindsay let out a small scream. The video feed blurred for a second then cleared to a view of a brick wall. The wall receded as the camera was picked up, then it only showed the floor.
“Oh god. What was that?” Lindsay whispered.
“Lindsay, can you hear me? Are you okay?” Dave asked.
“I’m okay. Dave, it appears that a car has been set on fire.”
As the camera crept over the balcony railing again, Lindsay zoomed in, and the burning car filled the screen. A group of men were standing in front of the car, pumping their fists in the air while chanting, “We will not be caged!”
Dave said, “Lindsay, I’ve been told that police have been deployed and should be there shortly. Can you tell me what sparked this protest?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know. But I do know that it quickly turned into looting and rioting. We are seeing a mix of that now.” A faint horn sounded, and Lindsay added, “I think the police are here.”
She leaned farther over the railing and tilted the camera to get a view up the street. A barricade of police vehicles blocked the path. A pack of officers in full riot gear began marching forward. The rioters threw bottles and rocks at the police shields, but the officers were undeterred. The crowd was slowly being pushed back. Lindsay and Dave had stopped reporting, allowing the video to speak for itself. The chanting got louder as the rioters were forced to retreat. Some of the men had scarves tied over their faces, but others did not. If they weren’t already sick, they were possibly being exposed to the virus.
A loud voice on a bullhorn called, “Everyone, go back to your homes, and you will not be harmed. Get back into your homes!”
A few people broke off from the group of rioters and ran. The camera moved back to the right, showing a fire truck dousing the flames surrounding the car. Within minutes, the fire was dead.
The bullhorn voice shouted, “This is your last warning! Go back inside your homes!”
More people separated from the group and scurried into buildings. The fire hose was turned toward the rapidly diminishing group of protesters. A forceful stream of water blasted the rioters, knocking the first line to the ground. As the police continued to move forward, the group finally broke apart and dispersed, except for a few men who stood their ground and continued their chant. The police put down their shields and aimed their guns at the men.
“Go back inside, or we will shoot!”
I couldn’t believe they might actually shoot unarmed people. The men pumped their fists in the air and chanted louder. A gunshot rang out, and the camera jerked.
Lindsay gasped and whispered, “Oh my god, oh my god.”
“Lindsay, are you okay? What are you seeing?”
“I can’t see anything, I—” The camera seemed to be clenched to her chest, showing only the frantic movement of her chest heaving up and down.
“Lindsay, can you move closer and show us what’s happening?”
“Uh, I don’t... Dave, I don’t know.” With the cell phone up against her clothing, her voice and the other sounds were muffled. She panted as if struggling to get enough oxygen.
I was on the edge of my seat. My breath felt like hers, pumping too fast through my lungs.
“That was a warning!” Bullhorn Voice yelled. “Go inside, or we will shoot.”
“Lindsay, be careful, but if you can, show us what’s happening.”
After an agonizing ten seconds, the camera went back to the railing. Lindsay must have been on the balcony floor because the camera moved through the railing instead of over. Lindsay’s hand trembled, but the image finally stilled enough that I could see the men backing away with their arms raised. All but one of them turned and ran into adjacent buildings.
The solitary man doubled over and began coughing. When he straightened, he looked at the police, who were still screaming at him to go back to his home. Suddenly, he sprinted toward the officers. The sound of rapid gunfire rang out, and the man’s body jerked several times before dropping to the ground. Lindsay screamed, and the camera fell again. The screen cracked, and a spidery web appeared on my TV just before it went black.
We could still hear Lindsay’s frantic cries. “They shot him! Dave, they shot the man. Oh my god! He was just—” She started coughing.
The TV screen changed to an image of Dave sitting behind the news desk. His stunned expression was replaced by a startled one. Then he stared into the camera. “For those of you who have just joined us, Lindsay Ballard has just reported from lower Manhattan, where rioters were protesting the quarantine. The police have managed to force the group back into their homes. One man was shot when he rushed the police.” Dave’s finger went to his ear. “I’m being told that police are breaking up similar protests in several other places around Manhattan.”
The image switched to a live helicopter feed. The sky view showed streets littered with trash and debris and some fires. People dashed from building to building as police marched and rode through the areas.
Dave came back on the screen. “What we’ve just seen are the effects of multiple riots around the city. We know that at least one person has been shot, but it is unclear how many people may have been injured. We urge residents to stay inside their homes. We will update you throughout the day with any new developments.”
The station abruptly flipped to a commercial. Zeke whined, and I realized I was clutching him too tightly. I relaxed my grip and leaned toward the window to look outside. Several helicopters hovered overhead, and three separate plumes of smoke sprouted up from buildings on the other side of the Queensborough bridge. Scanning the street below, I felt grateful that the people in my neighborhood had remained civil. I gulped down my wine then poured another glass.
For the next two hours, I flipped through the channels and watched various reports from different parts of the city, but all feeds were from helicopters, making it hard to see the action. By the time the rioting seemed to have been contained, four people were confirmed dead and countless others injured. Only two days into the quarantine, society had already begun to break down.
When the reporters began repeating the same stories, I flipped over to Netflix and settled on The Walking Dead. Maybe I could pick up a few pointers about surviving our pseudo-apocalypse. After several episodes and a few more glasses of wine, I turned off the TV and put on some music. Since no one was around to complain, I cranked up the volume and sang at the top of my lungs while dancing around the apartment. Zeke ran around and tried to jump on me.
An hour later, I was fully spent, so I took Zeke up to the roof with my wine and a throw blanket for warmth. Down on the street, no one was out except the occasional police car or ambulance. The streets were never that empty, even late at night or during horrible weather. The piles of recycling bags still dotted the sidewalk, where they would most likely remain. Picking up recycling would be low on the city’s list of priorities. The sounds of coughing from various buildings around me sent a shudder of fear up my spine.
But I felt confident that New Yorkers could survive. We had a unique brand of common sense. We’d trained our ears to the subtleties of subway noises, so we knew when to run for it. We had an inherent ability to look at a cramped space and comfortably pile in ten pieces of furniture. We’d learned how to carry six heavy bags of groceries up five flights of stairs by balancing them in a certain way. We’d all earned our place in the city, and we were tough and loyal.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two blond girls, about eight and twelve, making faces at me from an apartment window across the courtyard. My roof was bordered by a wide half wall, except for the narrower middle section, where there was a three-foot-high wrought-iron fence. I walked over to the fenced section to make faces back and have Zeke do some tricks for them.
The younger one was wearing a frilly yellow dress over jeans, and perched on top of her mountain of curls was a pink plastic tiara with fake rhinestones. The older one was jumping up and down while she pulled her face into various shapes. They were laughing and having a great time. I realized that I was, too, and that it was the most fun I’d had in months. I held up my finger to say “one minute” and ran downstairs to grab my iPod and portable speaker.
Back up on the roof, I blasted Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” and started dancing. When I looked over, I saw that they had found some throw blankets to wave around while they danced. They’d also opened the window to hear the music better.
When the song ended, I turned the music down a little so I could talk to them. “What are your names?”
The older one said, “I’m Julia.” She hooked her thumb over to her sister. “That’s Emma, princess of Long Island City.” Emma’s shoulders came up to her ears as she giggled.
“I’m Karis, and this is Zeke. Are there other people in your building?”
“Mr. Standhope is in the apartment below us, but he doesn’t go out much. He’s really old, so my mom brings him food sometimes. I think she just wants to check on him. We haven’t seen him in a while, but we hear him moving around down there sometimes. Yesterday, we heard him yelling the F-word a lot.” That made them giggle with their hands over their mouths. When they recovered, Julia asked, “Is there anyone else in your building?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve knocked on all the doors, and no one’s answered. There was a woman on the second floor, but she left yesterday.”
“It must be lonely with no one there,” Emma said.
“It was, but now I’m talking to you.” When they smiled, I pointed down at my dog. “Plus, I’ve got Zeke. He’s great at keeping me company.”
“I wish we could have a dog. My mom says they’re too much work. When I’m older, I want to have a lot of dogs,” Julia said.
Then they both turned around to talk to someone. I assumed it was their mom telling them to stop talking to strangers.
Julia spun back around and said, “Same time tomorrow?”
I gave her a thumbs-up.