7

 

 

NEW YORK CITY was bleak and dark and much reduced. With power lost at the compound, there were no lights visible anywhere on either side of the East River.

Miller gripped the top of the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Tevatnoa with white knuckles, his eyes never leaving the darkened city, awaiting the execution.

As the burden settled into his chest like a fungal infection, he sighed and felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

L. Gray Matheson patted his bandage, then stopped when Miller winced.

Aboard the Tevatnoa’s bridge, Miller, Gray, and Lewis stood silently, watching the Astoria Peninsula. The East River was running fast, whipping them down past Roosevelt Island. It would take only a few minutes to reach the open water of the Atlantic Ocean.

They couldn’t see the carnage at the compound from that distance, but they knew. Someplace on that pocket of land, the last of New York’s humans were fighting against a horde they couldn’t possibly beat.

“How long?” Gray asked.

Miller checked the timer on his watch. “Three minutes.”

Their eyes turned back to the peninsula.

Lewis cleared his throat. “You could say that Harris is about to get what he wanted.”

Miller didn’t speak. He’d thought the same thing, but his throat felt tight.

“I think when we enter Boston, that’s the story we go with,” Gray said.

His tone was matter-of-fact. Miller looked up in surprise.

“Story?”

Gray raised his eyebrows and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t be so eager to take the fall for this. You want to be known throughout all of history as the man who nuked New York City?”

“But I am the man who nuked New York City.”

“No, Harris is. And it’s not as if he’s going to be around to deny that story, is he?”

“Sir, I’m not sure…”

“Alex,” Gray said, looking a little like his old, controlled self. “Remember me saying that a good soldier needs something of a sociopath in him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that can mean doing the wrong things for the right reasons,” Gray continued. “It can also mean shifting blame onto someone too dead to object.”

Miller shot Gray a quick look, then turned his attention back to the skyline. Maybe he was right. Maybe not. Honestly, it was hard to think straight. Exhaustion and the depletion of adrenaline was making Miller feel sluggish.

Lewis grunted. “He’s right, son. It’ll stay between us. No one else need know.”

But Miller would know. It was a weight he was unsure he could forget he was carrying. But he nodded slowly. “If you two think that’s what best.”

Gray frowned. “We do.”

The bomb went off.

From their distance, there was no sound, but clearly visible from the ship’s bridge, there was a flash of light. A large cloud of dust puffed into the air from where the compound had once stood. The plume darkened the sky, covering the stars in all directions, hanging on the horizon like a black curtain.

Lewis’s shoulders slumped. “That’s it, then.” He turned away from the window, his eyes passing over Miller’s stricken face toward Gray. “What comes next?”

Gray shook his head slowly, his mouth thin and compressed. “I suppose we adapt.”

Lewis snorted. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Gray rubbed his chest with the butt of his hand. “There are rumors,” he said. “I hear the Russians are attempting to get back into space. There have been discussions of a colony off-planet.”

“Good God,” Lewis breathed. “Could they even...?”

“And the French have devised plans for some sort of mega-bunkers to house survivors—to try and wait this whole thing out,” Gray added.

“What about us?” Lewis asked.

Gray cocked his head. “First, Boston. Then after that...?” He shrugged.

Miller said nothing, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. He had a feeling the survivors of New York were condemned to a nomadic life, for now. It would be tough, but traveling could buy time for the world to settle down. A new normal would have to be found aboard the ship. Maybe for a generation, perhaps two.

He wasn’t sure what the new beginning was, but Miller tried to feel it like a rebirth. Every expectation of what the world was, or would be, or had been, was now stripped away.

Miller watched the dust cloud of the Astoria Peninsula in the distance and swallowed the lump in his throat.

For here on out, anything was possible.

 

 

MILLER STOOD ON the dock in Boston Harbour, the pier swarming with activity around him. Behind him, the Tevatnoa sat moored, creaking like an old rocking chair before its departure.

The trip from New York to Boston had been difficult. Once the survivors had been medically treated, fed from the hydroponic farms aboard, and informed of what had happened to the compound—or a version of what happened—the mood aboard fluctuated between stunned silence, mourning, and cautious hope.

They were the new pioneers, Gray told them. They were the next settlers of the new world, and they would explore this evolved land and find their place with all the strength and tenacity of the first colonists at Plymouth.

“We will rebuild!” Gray had preached, standing on the deck of the Tevatnoa like their savior.

The survivors had cheered, clinging to each other as if their faith would keep the large ship afloat.

Meanwhile, behind Gray and surrounded by du Trieux, Hsiung, and Morland, Miller had hugged his M27 to his chest.

He wanted to believe it would be that easy, but he knew history didn’t always remember the hardships the first colonists had faced. They were in for a battle, the kind his M27 wouldn’t always fix. But at least they weren’t in it wholly alone.

The British Royal Navy, or what was left of it, was rumored to be doing the same thing. Several of their own frigates had been converted into floating cities. Lewis had mentioned there were plans to converge with their vessels and embark together in search of new land—joining forces and resources would be a wise choice. The greater their numbers, the greater their chances for success, Lewis had said.

Before beginning their trans-Atlantic cruise to meet with the Navy and to try and pick up more gear and more ships in other parts of Europe, the Tevatnoa collected supplies and passengers in what was left of Boston.

Some survivors opted to stay there—to try their hand at living on familiar territory. Others never left the ship, concentrating on building infrastructure and living quarters inside the depths of the boat.

Miller wasn’t sure who would fare better. He wasn’t certain of anything anymore.

Now, on the dock, the Tevatnoa waiting for him, Miller’s uncertainty resurfaced. Where did he belong? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure of who he was—what he had become.

The old Miller, the bodyguard who had risked his life to protect others—he was long gone. He’d died at the beginning of all this shit; the moment Harris had ordered the attack helicopter to slaughter the Infected during the extraction of Lester Allen.

Even the Miller who had fought against the Charismatics, and teamed up with the Archaeans to liberate the compound’s survivors—even he didn’t exist anymore. He’d died in the mushroom cloud, blown to ash with all the Exiles and Infected of New York City.

How many times had he been reborn? How many versions of himself had he discarded to come this far?

He wasn’t certain someone like him belonged on a ship full of humanity’s hopes and dreams.

The weight of his old phone made his skin itch. He turned it on, flipped through his photos, trying to feel something familiar, something good. His family’s smiling faces stared back at him with such innocence, such life—it made his eyes water. He kept flipping, his calloused thumb scraping across the scratched screen. Photographs of Billy, Samantha, of all the members of Cobalt, many lost and gone forever. The ache in his chest made him look away.

Quickly, he pressed the power button, shutting it down. He pulled his arm back—to toss the phone into the water, be done with his past forever—but he stopped himself.

Footsteps approached from behind.

Turning around, he spotted du Trieux ambling up the dock. She carried a wooden crate of supplies in both her hands, her vest exchanged for a T-shirt and a headband. No gas mask; there weren’t too many wasps here.

She grinned at him, eyeing the phone in his hand and his pitcher’s stance. “Cleaning house?” she asked.

Miller dropped his arm to his side, phone still tight in his palm. “Yes. I mean, no. I—hell, I don’t know.”

She nodded, then skirted past and lugged the crate up a ramp leading to one of the cargo holds. “We disembark in a few minutes. Wouldn’t want to leave without you.” She stopped mid-step then looked at him kindly. “You ready?”

Miller pocketed his phone and wiped his palm against the leg of his pants. “I’ll be up in a few.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Okay.” Then, still carting the crate, she disappeared into the ship.

For a moment he just stared after her.

He walked toward the ramp, the phone weighing heavily in his pocket. This was a new beginning for all of them: for all the survivors, for the remains of humanity. For Cobalt, for du Trieux. For him.

Who he was, what he’d done—when the Tevatnoa pulled away from Boston’s docks, that man would be left behind, just like all the others.

As he bounded up the ramp into the cargo hold, he squared his shoulders.

Had to start someplace.