The authorities had taken quick steps as soon as Q Island had been declared. News radio broadcasted a long list of closures, not just bridges and tunnels, but entire sections of highways leading to them. Melanie had planned on crossing the Throgs Neck, the closest span. But the Cross Island Parkway was closed to all but military vehicles heading to Fort Totten, which overnight had expanded and commandeered the surrounding parks and the Clearview Park Golf Course. She opted for the Whitestone Bridge instead.
The expressway had light traffic for that time of day. In the bright sunlight, with the open spaces around the superhighway, she could almost forget that the world was going down the drain. A few ambulances screamed by, a couple of police cruisers with sirens blaring, but on the whole, it seemed like a weekend afternoon.
The radio declared the Whitestone Expressway was closed, so Melanie resorted to surface streets off the LIE. She planned to come up parallel to the expressway and park in the neighborhood beside the bridge. She piloted the Ford north on 150th Street, toward the East River and the bridge.
As soon as she hit the surface streets, her mood darkened. Traffic thinned to near nothing. The close-packed houses gave her a claustrophobic sense. Winter’s skeletal trees added no color to the endless rows of drab little houses. Vigilant, suspicious faces peered from windows. Here and there, civilians carrying a hodgepodge of weapons stood wary guard along the cracked sidewalks. She never saw a cop.
She rolled into the Whitestone neighborhood adjacent to the bridge. It had turned into a parking lot. Cars ahead of her drove as far forward as possible, stopped and disgorged their occupants. A stream of individuals made their way northwest toward the distant towering spires of the Whitestone Bridge. They carried backpacks, pulled suitcases, pushed strollers. It reminded Melanie of the parking lot at Jones Beach in the summer, everyone unloading the day’s gear and heading for the water. But this crowd replaced a beachgoer’s jaunty expectation with a sense of grim determination, sprinkled with desperate hope. Melanie pulled into a curbside spot under a No Parking sign.
“Out we go, Aiden.”
He’d beaten her to the draw and was already halfway out the door. His red Superman backpack hung low from his shoulders. His sweatshirt hood hung back over it, the tip bisecting the big S logo. She pulled her roller board bag out of the Ford’s rear hatch.
They followed the group, like two insects trusting in the collective consciousness of the rest of the swarm. Individuals became a loose band, then coalesced into a pack as the surrounding streets funneled them closer to the bridge. The crowd rumbled with the sound of parents hushing confused or complaining children, but no one spoke between groups, as if no energy could be expended, save that in the pursuit of the escape they all dreamed lay just in the distance.
One street dead-ended at the Whitestone Expressway, just shy of the bridge entrance. The chain-link fence lay cut open and peeled back like the skin of an onion. The crowd squeezed through and joined a human mass on the other side. A sea of people packed all six lanes of the on-ramp. The group stretched back at least a half mile from where Melanie stood. They were surprisingly silent.
At the end closest to the bridge, a red Dodge Ram pickup sat facing the river. Its off-road suspension raised it up so high that the man in the bed stood above the shoulders of even the crowd’s tallest. A large American flag hung limply behind him, its staff duct-taped to the truck’s rear window. The man in the bed wore a white dress shirt, sleeves cuffed, and a loosened yellow tie. He spoke through a black megaphone that coincidentally matched the plastic of his thick-framed glasses.
“Now, we are gathered here with a simple request,” he said. His voice echoed across the crowd. He had a slight Hispanic accent. It seemed that Melanie was catching him midspeech. “We only ask for what we have always had, what most of you were born with, what the rest of you immigrated for. Freedom.”
A cheer rose from the nearby crowd. At the far end, those who could hear shouted summaries of his speech to the rest.
“We are not infected.” He slid his sleeve up past the elbow and raised his tawny arm in the air. “We are clean. We want to stay that way. We don’t ask for housing, we don’t ask for food, we don’t ask for transportation. We just ask for the freedom to go be with our families and friends on the other side of this river.”
Another cheer arose, louder this time.
“Now, follow this truck. Women and children up front. Peacefully. We’re going to pass through this illegal and immoral barricade, and join our fellow citizens on the other side.” He started a chant. “Free-dom! Free-dom!”
The crowd followed suit, and the thunder of “Free-dom” rolled outward and up the bridge. The Ram fired up with a low diesel rumble, like an enraged bull, and spat a puff of black smoke. It began a slow uphill roll to the bridge. The American flag caught the breeze off the river and snapped to full display. The crowd followed, aligned along an invisible border behind the rear bumper. Strollers led the slow-motion charge.
Across the river beckoned the welcoming green expanse of Ferry Point Park and, farther west, the towers of New York City, where Charles and safety awaited them.
“C’mon, Aiden. Daddy’s on the other side of that bridge.”
Melanie and Aiden joined the march forward.
Up ahead, halfway to the bridge’s tower, simple yellow NYPD sawhorses blocked all the lanes where the great steel cables sprouted from the ground to meet the first of the two main towers. A single police car sat across the lanes, roof lights flashing a red-and-white warning. Two cops in surgical masks and heavy blue-nylon jackets stood behind the sawhorses. Across the front of each sawhorse was stenciled POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS.
The Dodge closed on the barricade. One of cops spoke into the mic on his shoulder. They both retreated to the cruiser and took a defensive position behind the open front doors.
“Turn around and disperse!” one cop shouted through the squad car’s speaker. He had a thick city accent. “The bridge is closed. None of you are gonna be allowed into the Bronx. Trust me! Go home.”
“Nice and slow,” the man in the pickup coached the crowd through his bullhorn. He broke into a broad smile. “These are city cops, our city cops. They won’t turn us away.” He turned back to thepolicemen. “We are your family members, your neighbors. We are not infected. These are women and children! Show some compassion!”
The truck closed to within yards of the barricade. Fear crossed the cops’ faces. They ducked inside the cruiser and slammed the doors.
“This is your last warning!” the cop broadcast. “Do not cross the barricades!”
The crowd sensed victory. All that stood between them and salvation were a few thin wood planks on metal legs. The chant of “Free-dom!” resounded louder.
The crisp breeze off the river sent a chill, a good chill, down Melanie’s spine. The whitecaps on the water sparkled in the sunlight. This was going to work. Aiden kept pace beside her, apparently willing to endure the close quarters of the crowd for the reward that lay beyond the bridge’s final span.
The police cruiser’s rear tires spun in a cloud of smoke, and the car screeched in reverse up the bridge. It disappeared down the other side of the apex.
The Ram rolled over and flattened two sawhorses. The surging crowd tossed the others to the ground. The barricades near the bridge’s edge went sailing over the side and into the river. At the sight, cheers rose up from back in the crowd. The tense faces of the lead ranks split into smiles. Tentative steps transformed into strides. The shining Dodge crested the bridge’s apex, Old Glory flying proudly behind the cab. As the marchers began the downhill march, their chanting died on their lips.
Two rows of gray-concrete barricades covered the bridge exit. A main battle tank clanked forward to fill the central gap the retreating police cruiser had used to escape. MRAP armored personnel carriers held a position on each flank, with turret guns trained on the bridge. Soldiers in chemical protective suits and gas masks lined the barricades, aiming a nasty assortment of automatic weapons at the crowd. A few yards before the barricade, a red, spray-painted line spanned the width of the bridge.
“No problem,” the man in the truck reassured the crowd. “Our cops, our soldiers. American soldiers don’t fire on American citizens. We are all one nation, under God. They’ll see we’re no threat.”
A voice rang out across the bridge, twice as loud as the police had been. “This is Colonel Barient of the United States Army. Do not approach the barricades! Withdraw to the far end of the bridge and return to your homes. We are authorized to use deadly force to protect the nation from the virus.”
Melanie didn’t like his tone. His resolve sounded worse than steely. He sounded perfunctory, as if he had to get this little disclaimer out of the way so he could unleash a murderous fusillade with a clear conscience.
“Aiden, move to the edge of the bridge.” She sidestepped them over.
“Continue forward,” the man in the Dodge exhorted the crowd. Turning back to the barricades, he left the megaphone to balance on the roof of the Ram. He reached down and tore his shirt open down to the waist.
“Look at me!” he shouted, loud enough the soldiers could hear. “Look at us! We’re not infected. We’re clean. Check us if you want. There are women and children here, separated from their families.”
The crowd continued to surge forward. Aiden moved to the bridge’s wall. He cringed as passing people bumped into him. Melanie’s heart broke at the massive self-control he was displaying under conditions that had to be torture. She moved to his side, hung on to the bridge barrier’s edge and placed herself as a shield against the advancing crowd. Aiden flattened himself into the pocket of calm she created.
“This is your last warning!” the colonel announced.
“Soldiers, the world will see your compassion!” the man in the Ram called out. “Inspire them all, and do the right thing!”
The front tires of the Ram touched the red line. The tank’s cannon fired. The barrel belched white smoke and the massive armored vehicle rocked back from the impact.
The shell couldn’t miss. It burrowed straight through the Ram’s chrome-trimmed grill. It exploded, and the cabin became a fireball. The blast seemed to dismantle the truck from the inside. Doors, fenders, glass—all blew out from the central explosion. The shirtless man in the back disintegrated.
On cue, the rest of the soldiers opened up. The hail of gunfire cut the crowd down like threshed wheat. Hot lead ripped arms and legs from bodies. Strollers splintered into a thousand pieces. Glowing tracer rounds pierced luggage, and the impact blew clothes around like a textile snowstorm.
A round tore the head off a large black woman in a sweat suit standing right in front of them. The force sent her flying back into Aiden and Melanie, pinning them to the ground and saving their lives. Rounds thudded into the protective mass of their unintended savior.
In the shock and awe of the fusillade, the first-row victims died before they could react. The crowd paused, stunned, unable to process what they’d just experienced. Then came the scream. A high-pitched, collective wail rose up from the crowd, a screech that could only be born of absolute panic. The mob turned about as one and ran.
Weapon fire raked the retreating crowd. More victims dropped like dead leaves. Inside the panicked pack, people tripped, fell and were trampled to death.
Underneath the dead woman, Aiden could take no more. Despite the bulk on top of him, he kicked and screamed and twisted to get free. His head slammed into Melanie’s nose. She heard it crack and saw stars. Blood gushed down across her mouth. She covered Aiden’s mouth with her hand and stifled his screams.
The gunfire petered out amidst someone shouting “Cease fire!” over and over. A final bullet zinged by and shattered the concrete abutment above them. A deafening silence replaced the thunder of guns. The previously invigorating breeze blew the sharp smell of spent gunpowder across the bridge. Muttered comments of shocked despair rose up from the ranks behind the barricades as the weight of their actions settled upon the soldiers’ shoulders.
Her heart pounded in her ears. All she could think of was getting her son out of this pile of bleeding corpses. The killers at the end of the bridge might gun her down for trying, but she wasn’t staying here. She released her grip on her son. He began to scream again. With both arms and legs, she heaved. The dead woman rolled off them. The hazy smoke of burnt cordite fogged the bridge deck.
“Aiden! Run back to the car! Now!”
He needed no prompting. He was up on his feet in an instant. Melanie leapt up behind him, instinctively shielding him from the soldiers’ gun sights, for whatever that might be worth.
The downed marchers lay across the bridge like a lumpy, half-dead carpet. The moans of the living began to rise in the silence. A few bodies stirred. Aiden ran back down the bridge as fast as his strange upright posture permitted, which now seemed like slow motion. They trampled across the bodies, tilting on unsure footing in the slick, soft piles.
She tried not to think about the hundred weapons trained on her back, the cannon that could vaporize her and her child. She focused on her son, the back of his backpack stained with blood and flesh she prayed was not his own. She had to get him over the bridge’s apex, out of the soldiers’ line of fire. She had no time to relish the irony of Q Island feeling like a safe harbor.
A shot rang out from behind the barricades. A few feet ahead of Aiden, the chest of a body on the ground erupted in blood.
“Stand down, goddamn it!” someone yelled from behind. “They’re running away, for Chrissakes!”
Farther up the bridge, the bodies became scattered. The wounded dragged themselves back to Queens, leaving smudged blood trails on the concrete. Melanie followed Aiden step for step as he jump-navigated the minefield of the dead and dying. They traversed the bridge’s apex and accelerated on the open, downhill run.
The escaping marchers had knotted into a mass at the on-ramp, as the limited access onto the expressway from the neighborhoods meant limited egress off. Aiden stopped short of the tail end of the pack to catch his breath. Melanie knelt before him. His chest heaved in great, jagged breaths.
“Aiden, are you okay? Are you hurt?” She inspected him head to toe. A couple of scratches. A red patch on his neck that would become a splendid bruise later. His clothes were a bloody mess, but none of it seemed to be his. She gave thanks to God, followed by a prayer that none of the blood was infected.
Screams erupted from the mob on the on-ramp. The unmistakable blat and grind of chainsaws wound up. People at the back of the pack reversed course and began to run toward Melanie. Down below her, a clear circle formed in the mob along the expressway, like a drop of soap repelling oil on water. In the open space, several men with whirling chainsaws gave chase to the terrified masses. Despite the cold, the sawmen were all shirtless. Gray veins wove an evil pattern on their chests.
The mob surged back up the bridge. Kids slipped from between burdened adults and raced ahead of the group. Behind them, women clutched infants, all wide-eyed and terrified. Shrieks rang out from the base of the ramp as a chainsaw’s buzz slowed and resurged after slashing a victim.
Aiden froze in place. Melanie grabbed him by the backpack and dragged him against the bridge railing. The children at the leading edge of the surging crowd recrossed the bridge’s apex. Gunfire erupted from the north ramp soldiers. Little bodies turned into pink mist.
The approaching chainsaws amplified from buzz to roar. Arterial blood sprayed over the heads of the crowd like rain. Raw, blind panic filled the faces around Melanie. One woman just locked in place, her infant clutched to her breast, her eyes staring out at nothing.
Another volley raked the crowd to the north. The oily smell of the chainsaw exhaust mixed with the gunpowder. One way or another, everyone on this bridge was about to die.
On sheer maternal instinct, Melanie picked Aiden up by the nape of his backpack and his rear belt loop. She launched him over the side toward the East River below. Then she climbed up on the railing and dove after him.