snow at Logan’s feet.
We continue down Broadway, gaining speed, moving as fast as we can. As we go, the crowd of crazies seems to thin out. Maybe they see the damage we are doing and become wary of approaching. Or maybe they are just waiting, biding their time. They must know we will run out of ammo, and will eventually have nowhere to go.
We pass 19th street, then 18th, then 17th…and suddenly, the sky opens up. Union Square. The square, once so pristine, is now one big, untended park, filled with trees and waist-high weeds, sprouting up through the snow. The buildings are all in ruin, the glass storefronts shattered and the facades blackened from flames. Several of the buildings have collapsed, are nothing but piles of rubble in the snow.
I look over, checking to see if the Barnes amp; Noble that I once loved is still standing. I remember the days when I would go there with Bree, when we would go up the escalator and get lost in there for hours. Now, I am horrified to see that there is nothing left. Its old, rusted sign lies face-down on the ground, half covered in snow. There’s not a single book left in the shell of its windows. In fact, there’s no way of knowing what the store even was.
We hurry across the square, sidestepping rubble as we follow the bus tracks. All has become eerily quiet. I don’t like it.
We reach the southern side of the square, and I’m saddened to see the huge statue of George Washington mounted on a horse toppled, lying in pieces on its side, half-covered in snow. There is really nothing left. Anything and everything that was good in the city seems to have been ruined. It is astonishing.
I stop, grabbing onto Logan’s shoulder, trying to catch my breath. My leg hurts so bad, I need to rest it.
Logan stops and is about to say something-when suddenly we both hear a commotion and turn. Across the square, dozens of crazies suddenly rise up from the subway entrance, heading right for us. I can’t believe how many there are: there seems to be a never-ending stream of them.
Worse, Logan takes aim and pulls the trigger, and this time we hear nothing but an empty, horrifying click. His eyes open wide in surprise and fear. Now we have nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. This huge group of crazies, at least a hundred and growing, are closing in. I turn in every direction, looking frantically for any source of escape, any vehicles, any weapons. Any source of shelter. But I find none.
It seems we have reached the end of our luck.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I frantically scan our surroundings, and I spot the facade of what was once a Whole Foods. It is abandoned, like everything else, completely gutted. But unlike the other stores, it appears the doors are still intact. I wonder if maybe we can get in and lock them behind us.
“This way!” I scream to Logan, who stands there, frozen in indecision.
We run to the entrance of the Whole Foods, the crazies just 30 yards behind us. I expect them to be yelling, but they are dead silent. With all the snow, they don’t even make a sound, and that somehow is even more eerie than if they were screaming.
We reach the doors and I try the handle and am relieved it’s open. I run in, Logan behind me, then turn and slam it behind us. Logan removes the heavy machinegun from his shoulder and shoves it between the door handles, barring the doors. He wedges it in there, and it is a perfect fit. I test the doors, and they don’t budge.
We turn and run deeper into the store. It is cold in here, empty, gutted. There aren’t any remnants of food, just torn and empty packaging, all over the floor. There are no weapons, no supplies. No hiding places. Nothing. Whatever was once here was looted long ago. I scan for exits, but see none.
“Now what?” Logan asks.
There’s a sudden crash against the metal door, and I see dozens of crazies slam into it. I can already tell our lock won’t last long. I search the store again, frantic for an idea. And then, in the distance, I spot something: a stairwell.
“There!” I yell, pointing.
We both run across the store, burst open the door, and find ourselves in a stairwell. Logan looks at me.
“Up or down?” he asks.
It’s a good question. If we go down, maybe there’s a basement. Maybe there are some sort of supplies, and maybe we can barricade ourselves in down there. Then again, it could be a death trap. And judging from the look of this place, I doubt there are any supplies. If we go up, maybe there’s something on a higher floor. Maybe an exit through the roof.
My claustrophobic side gets the better of me.
“UP!” I say, despite the pain in my leg.
We start ascending the metal steps. Logan climbs so fast, it is a struggle for me to catch up. He stops and turns, realizing, then runs back, wraps an arm around me, holds me tight, and pulls me up the steps faster than I can manage on my own. Each step is torture, feels like a knife entering my calf. I curse the day that snake was born.
We run up flight after flight. When we cross the fourth flight I have to stop, gasping for breath. My breath is raspy, and sounds scary even to me: I sound like a 90 year old woman. I think my body has endured too much in the last 48 hours.
Suddenly, there is a horrific crash. We both look at each other, then look down the stairwell. We realize at the same time that the crazies have broken in.
“COME ON!” he screams.
He grabs me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as we run twice as fast up the steps. We clear the sixth flight, then the seventh. I hear the sound of the crazies barging into the stairwell, and look down and see them starting to sprint up the steps. They know exactly where we are.
I look up and see there is only one more flight to go. I force myself, gasping for breath, up the last flight of steps. We reach the landing and race for the metal door to the roof. Logan puts a shoulder into it, but it won’t open. It’s locked. Apparently, from the outside. I can’t believe it.
The mob of crazies is getting closer, the sound of them on the metal stairwell deafening. In moments, we will be torn to bits.
“STAND BACK!” I scream to Logan, getting an idea.
This is as good a place as any to use my last round. I pull out my gun, take aim, and with the last round I have left, I fire at the knob. I know it’s risky to fire in such close quarters-but I don’t see what choice we have.
The bullet ricochets off the metal, missing us by an inch, and the lock opens.
We run through the door, out into daylight. I survey the roof, wondering where we can go, if there’s any possible escape. But I see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Logan suddenly takes my hand and runs with me to the far corner of the roof. As we reach the edge I look over and see, below us, a huge stone wall. It spans University Place, running across 14th Street and blocking off everything south of it.
“The 14th Street wall!” Logan screams. “It separates the wasteland from the desert.”
“The desert?” I ask.
“It’s where the bomb went off. It’s all radiated-everything south of 14th street. No one goes there. Not even the Crazies. It’s too dangerous.”
There’s a sudden crash of metal, and the door to the roof slams open. The mob pours out, running right for us.
Far below I see a snow bank, about eight feet high. The snow is thick, and if we land just right, maybe, just maybe, it can cushion our fall. But it is a far jump, about fifty feet. And it would put us on the Desert side of the wall.
But I don’t see what choice we have.
“That snow bank!” I yell, pointing. “We can jump for it!”
Logan looks down and shakes his head, looking scared.
