"To Choose a Side"

2005-06-15T15:53:00.000-07:00

Introduction: This story is a crossover between the
television series Law & Order and Stephen King's novel
The Stand. In the novel, a man-made strain of influenza
kills 99.4% of the human population; survivors experience peculiar
dreams which are manipulated by two opposing forces.
To Choose a Side presents Law & Order
characters from the show's first season. One of them is immune
to this flu and is invested by both sides.

Disclaimer: The characters of Max Greevey, Marie Greevey,
Adam Greevey, Eileen Greevey, Matthew Greevey, Mike Logan,
Paul Robinette, Ben Stone, Shambala Green, Morris Torledsky,
Don Cragen, Madge Cragen, Tony Profaci, James Deitz, James
Deakins, Jarret Whitestone, Arlene Shrier and Atanta Willow
(not named in the show) were created by artists in the employ
of Wolf Films; said characters belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.
Stephen King created and owns the characters of
Barry Dorgan, Larry Underwood, Alice Underwood, Mr. Freeman,
Andrew Freeman, Lloyd Henreid, Ed Norris, Dick Deitz,
Randall Flagg and Mother Abagail. This story was not written for
profit to any party.

"To Choose a Side"
by
Tony Perodeau

Northern end of Rikers Island, New York City
Monday, October 7, 1918

Beginning just before noon, Admiral Clarence Hardestay took
the most savage beating of his life. Aches erupted as a hundred
boards of the hardest oak smote his head, limbs and torso.
Shooting pains lanced up and down as if his nerves had turned
to charged copper. The faint tickles and light scratches which
had annoyed his throat all morning were now demons which
urged explosions of air, but the demons could not be expelled.

Welcome to Spain, he thought, feeling a chill deep
in his body even as his face radiated heat. For he knew that
the Spanish Flu had found him, was investing him with the
same force it was applying to civilians and sailors alike. He
had seen the flu make invalids of strapping drill-tough men,
watched too many of these men die. Now it was his turn.

Sudden onset, like the docs say, Hardestay thought,
leaning on a shelf. Rivulets stung his eyes. You could feel fine
one minute and be helpless -- or dead -- the next.

He tried not to let his shivers show. The lights in the bunker
bothered him and he moved to a shadowed area on legs
which threatened to collapse at any second. All of the explosives
were in place, thank God. Navy workmen were shelving the last
shipments of benzol and guncotton.

The clatter of metal on concrete startled him. He turned to
the source and saw a well-muscled sailor -- Seaman Giancarlo
Borgia -- prone on the floor, coughing and retching. The big
barrel of benzol he had carried rolled -- God, no! -- to
stacked shelves where bottles of picric acid stood.

Hardestay clapped hands over his mouth as the barrel struck
the shelving. The assembly tipped a few inches, then rocked
the other way. The bottles clinked. Hardestay gasped, part of
him thinking that he should welcome this. An explosion would
spare him from the full course of Spanish Flu terror. But after
seemingly-endless rocking and clinking, the assembly stopped,
and the only evidence of what had happened was the liquid
sloshing in the bottles.

The Admiral shivered. His teeth chattered. He coughed fit to
turn his lungs inside out, but the demons never lost their tines.

By two o’clock he was feeling far worse than he could have
imagined, as he huddled at his desk. The germs had redoubled
their cudgels, and were tightening his chest. It was getting
harder to draw breath. And he was cold, so cold! He’d broken
one tooth and lost fillings in two others, such was the violence
of their chattering.

But the bunker was safe. If the Germans, who had undoubtedly
started this flu -- no, Clarence, call it what it is, a plague --
ever found this place, they’d find enough munitions to conquer
the Americas. But they wouldn’t. This place was secret, and
secured by the finest vault door modern technology had to offer.
Hardestay had the only plans in existence.

What place is this, Siberia? He grabbed all the papers
he could find and stuffed them in his stove, but the imps
defeated his best fire. Even his flame-blistered hands continued
to tremble, cold to the core like his whole insides.

He sensed that he was doing something very wrong, but as the
wallpaper patterns came to life, all writhing serpents and
flailing branches, he could not think of a specific wrong. He was
sick, so sick, and as he struggled for breath a great fist
squeezed his chest.

He found that he could not take air. The snakes vanished,
along with everything else. His tormented body fell away.

A bright lance pierced him, drove some of the cottony gunk
from his mind, and he understood what he’d done wrong.

He had destroyed all papers associated with the bunker.

Doesn’t matter, he thought as gentle blackness enveloped him.

******************************************************************************************************************************

Saturday, June 16, 1990
10:14 A.M.
100 Centre Street, Manhattan, New York City
Arraignment Court

The court clerk shouted, “Docket Number 9211947, People
versus Edwin Konig, possession for the purpose of
trafficking, resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
He handed the relevant documents to Judge Morris Torledsky.

“Very naughty,” the Judge said. “Let’s hear your plea, Mr. Konig.”

The blond Konig stopped smirking long enough to say,
“Not guilty.”

“Loud and clear. Now do we wish to discuss bail?”

Paul Robinette said, “Your Honor, the People want remand.
Mr. Konig is a neighbourhood drug lord who sees tens of
thousands of dollars from his illegal activity every month.
While being arrested he struck a sergeant of detectives hard
enough to put him in the hospital.”

Close by, a scowling Max Greevey stroked his neck just below
his bandage-covered chin. Another bandage was on his forehead,
above the swollen left eye. Mike Logan, his brown leather jacket
beady with rainwater, sat on Greevey’s right. The two cops gazed
at Konig and his corpulent lawyer.

“Mr. Lardeau?” Torledsky said.

“Your Honor, my client is a respected member and true pillar
of his community. He belongs with his neighbours. The Defence
suggests $50,000 bail.”

“Two felonies on top of the misdemeanor. And a police officer
was injured. This calls for high bail ... $200,000, cash or
bond.” Torledsky struck his gavel on the small pedestal.

Konig’s smirk remained steady.

*****************************************************************************

“Dammit, Paul!” Max shouted, his voice echoing through the
hall outside the courtroom. People turned their heads. Max
lowered his voice as he said, “Konig’s gonna jump. We may
never see him again.”

“Not a perfect system, Sergeant.”

“That’s lame.” Max shook his head. “Damn lame. Look, Mike
and I have to get back to the 2-7. Come on, Mike.”

Mike looked at Paul and said, “See you.” Then he walked
with Max to the exit. Max’s footfalls were louder than usual.
Max was stocky, almost as heavy as Lardeau, but he had
the professional cop’s ability to walk as if he wore cat’s paws.
When he stomped, you knew he was boiling over, Paul thought.

Thunder rumbled hard enough to shake the windows, but
Paul could still hear Max’s soles as they slapped the floor.

******************************************************************************

Detective’s squad room, 27th Precinct
7:58 A.M. Wednesday, June 20

“There you are, Max,” said Captain Donald Cragen. “Just got
a buzz from North Caldwell PD. Your friend Konig is in
their lockup -- DUI”

Max clucked his tongue. “Jumped across the Hudson, did
he?” That was a bail violation fit to jump him to Rikers.

At that moment, Mike entered the room.

“Yo, Mikey! We’re going to Jersey.”

“Atlantic City?”

Max grimaced. “What kind of a dumbass question is that!”
Last year Marie had blown most of her Christmas shopping
money at the Trump Taj Mahal. Yet she and some of her lady
friends still went there from time to time, and she was planning
to go today. Max shook his head and reached for the telephone,
hoping that he could talk Marie out of today’s trip.

But on the other end was his daughter Eileen, who would
become a teenager on Independence Day. Over the background
noise of a disc jockey’s voice, she said, “Mom left five minutes
ago. Mrs. Gilbertson picked her up.”

Max sighed and said, “Okay.” Paula Gilbertson lived three houses
away and was Marie’s best friend.

The jockey said, “And now here’s Baby Can You Dig Your Man
by Larry Underwood.” That song had been playing a lot
over the past few days.

“That Larry Underwood is so cool,” Eileen said.

“He leaves me cold. Now if I were you I’d turn off that radio
and get ready for school. And make sure the boys are ready, too.”
Adam was five years older than Eileen and would be getting his
driver’s license soon (now there was a coming worry). Matthew
was ten, but going on teenage almost as fast as Eileen. With that
thought, Max hung up ... without saying ‘bye or love you,
he realized. How to leave your own kid cold, he thought.

He said, “Come on, Mike.” The two men left the room and
marched to the basement garage where their cruiser was waiting.

They neared the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel by 8:20 ... just
as the traffic stopped. Minutes passed, but the cars didn’t move.
There had to be an accident in the tunnel or maybe just outside
at the Jersey end ... maybe an accident involving Marie.

“Mike, get on the horn and find out what the fuck is going on,”
Max growled. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty
forehead. The sun was already hot and the cruiser’s A/C was
weak. He wished they were stuck in the tunnel, out of
those damn rays.

******************************************************************************

Weehawken, New Jersey
West entrance of Lincoln Tunnel
11:16 A.M.

By the time Max and Mike arrived at the Jersey side, they knew
a bit about the cause of their delay. An eastbound trucker had
crossed into the center lanes (where trucks were not allowed)
and collided head-on with three westbound cars. The wrecks
had been taken away, but the pavement sparkled with thousands
of glass bits. Several Port Authority investigators and Jersey state
troopers were conferring in the toll plaza, where it was shady.
One of the Authority guys was hooking his hands around his neck
as he talked to the troopers. Max guessed that he was talking
about a motorist who had throttled the driver.

A crow landed on the hood of Max’s cruiser, right in front of
him. Max gazed at the bird’s large, red-rimmed eye.

Mike barked, “Hey!” and clapped his hands. The crow flew
off. Mike said, “You okay, Max?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“You look like you’re in a trance.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Well, mind the potholes. They say Jersey potholes’ll eat
you alive.”

Max glared at Mike. “You’re so worried about potholes,
you drive!”

“Sure.”

As Max stepped out of the car, dozens -- hundreds -- of crows
erupted from the wooded bluff near the plaza. They flew
overhead, cawing furiously. One bird landed on a cruiser’s
light bar -- the same bird, thought Max, who’d landed in
front of him.

Max hurried to the passenger seat and closed the door. “Let’s
go, before it rains.”

Mike drove the cruiser to one of the toll gates and stopped.
The collector, a white-haired Authority guy who wore shades,
said, “Yo, Mr. Big!”

Max cocked his head. The guy was talking to Mike.

“Yo yourself, Blackbear.” Mike cocked a thumb at the crash
scene. “Heard some dopey trucker fell asleep.”

Blackbear sneezed once and said, “Passed out. Sick as a
dog. Some sort of mono, they say.” He raised his hands in the
same hooking gesture as the other Authority man had made
a moment ago. “Glands’re swollen.”

Mono, Max thought. Something else to worry about
now that Adam’s dating.

Mike said, “I had mono...”

“I’ll bet you did,” Blackbear replied, wiping his nose.

“And it didn’t make me that ill.”

“You weren’t driving a rig, popping pills to stay awake
thirty-six at a time.”

“Yeah, that’s a factor.”

Max leaned in front of Mike and looked at Blackbear. He jabbed
his thumb at Mike and barked, “Hey! If he’s Mr. Big, then who
am I? Don’t answer!”

******************************************************************************

North Caldwell Police Headquarters
12:17 P.M.

Sergeant Terry Hartman frog-marched the handcuffed Konig to
Max and Mike. “Good riddance to this asshole,” Hartman said.

“I love you too,” Konig said. He leaned at Hartman and thrust his
tongue as if he wanted to lick the cop’s face.

“Come on!” Max snarled. Without waiting for Mike, he hustled
Konig out of the building. Mike hurried ahead and opened the
passenger-side rear door of the cruiser. Max shoved Konig in,
letting his head strike the roof.

“Ow! Fucking police brutality!”

“Shut up or you’ll have a real fucking time at Rikers!” Max
bellowed.

Konig eyed a pair of Caldwell cops who were on their way in.
“Hey! This New York oinker hurt me and threatened me!”

The older cop said, “Hurt and threatened you? I must’ve
missed something.” He turned to his partner. “Tim?”

“Sorry, boss. I was daydreaming. Always happens when
NYPD. guys are near.”

******************************************************************************

By 2 P.M., Max and Mike were done with Konig. Back at the
2-7, Tony Profaci was raiding a box of sesame bagels. His
mouth was too full for talk, so he just pointed to the
telephone on Max’s desk.

Profaci’s note on the keypad read MAX: CALL BARRY DORGUN
SANTA MONICA PD. The phone number followed.

“How you could put a ‘U’ in place of an ‘A’ is beyond me,
Profaci,” Max said with a grin.

Tony swallowed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Still smiling, Max punched the number. Barry Dorgan had
been one of his best friends at the Academy -- and a solid
partner for several years afterward. People kept saying that
Barry and Max were two of a kind. The only difference was
that Barry found New York winters too cold -- he’d moved
to California twelve years ago.

Max got through to Barry’s phone on the third try. He
recognized Barry’s “Detective Dorgan” at once.

“Barry, it’s Max. What’s up, besides the Mets in LA tonight?”

“Afternoon game” Barry said. “Course it’ll be evening in
Gotham when the Dodgers whip Roy’s ass.”

Roy: Pronounced raw or roi, a royal pronounciation indeed if
you spoke French. Tom Roy was the Mets’ oldest starting
pitcher.

“You underestimate Roy, it’s your funeral,” Max said. “He
threw some scary chin music last time. So how’s the family?”

“They’ve all got colds. Weird for this time of year, must be
new pollen or something. How about yours?”

“Couldn’t be better, touch wood.” Max tapped his desk. “The
kids just aren’t getting the As they should.”

“Keep after ‘em” Barry said. “Max, reason I called is we have
a murder suspect who may be in your town.”

“Who?”

“Larry Underwood, singer and musician, if you can call his
stuff singing.”

“Like Baby Can You Dig...?”

“He’s the one. I’ve faxed the particulars to the NYPD. An
associate of his was found dead two days ago. Beaten to
a pulp -- his neck swole up so much it was like someone
stuffed an inner tube all around. A really bad beating could
do that, the M.E. said.”

“Drugs, I’ll bet.”

“Fucking drugs. Max, if you can nab this guy the
boss’ll be real happy.”

“We’ll do our best.”

Max heard a volley of coughs and sneezes.

“That’s not you, is it, Barry?”

“Nope. It’s my partner. Got sick yesterday and now he’s
dead on his feet.”

******************************************************************************

After hanging up, Barry thought about what he’d told Max.
Two days ago, the tube-neck phenomenon had been unique,
but the coroner had since been swamped with dozens of
similar cases. It looked like a new and deadly disease was in
town. While Underwood might have been the last person to see
Mark Faro alive, it now seemed unlikely that he’d caused
Faro’s death.

Still, Barry felt compelled to have Underwood arrested. He
sensed that it had something to do with last night’s dream --
vivid and colorful, with three details which were fresh as if
he’d just awakened.

The old black woman in the cornfield, with her guitar. She
looked like a kindly type -- too kind, too lenient. People like
her let their kids get away with all sorts of mischief.

The long-haired, denim-clad man. You’re the guy I want,
he’d told Barry. You’ll be the core of my team. Together
we’ll bring peace and good order.

The man’s city -- clean, with no gang colors on the buildings,
no one selling drugs on the street corners.

A series of rough booming coughs sounded from across
the desk. Barry’s partner Dominic Basadre was doubled over
a wastebasket, bringing up copious amounts of
pus-colored phlegm.

“Dom, you belong in bed.”

Dom said nothing, just kept on coughing as goose bumps roughened his skin.

You started off with a cold, Barry thought. The
same type of cold my family has.

Barry could feel Dom’s body heat. It reminded him of the many
arson/murders they’d investigated, crimes in which they’d
examined the scene -- a building, a car or (worst of all) a
blackened kid-shaped bundle -- just after the flames were
put out, while steam was still rising. He noticed dark smudges
on Dom’s neck, as big as plums.

What the hell is happening!

Barry’s telephone rang. He reached for the handset and
trembled with icy, heart-racing anticipation. Someone in his
family was taking a turn, just like Dom.

******************************************************************************

Max could remember when the Washington Heights
neighbourhood where Alice Underwood lived was a solid
blue-collar area with well-kept brownstone apartment
houses. The brownstones were still there, but the sights --
garbage everywhere, rusting cars with flat tires, people
loitering on corners and in alleys -- were things that the
working people of thirty or forty years ago would not have
been party to.

Mike parked the cruiser in front of the address which Dorgan
had faxed. He walked with Max to the entrance. From a
window above, they could hear a woman sneezing. In the
lobby they found a wiry, weatherbeaten man working on an
open speaker system.

Max badged the man, saying, “Excuse me, sir...”

“So the cavalry has come!” the man shouted with a Jewish
accent. “Where were you when the fucking Rickies were
trashing this damn box!”

“I’m sorry,” Max said, pulling out his notebook. “If you know
who did it...”

“Take your pick out there!”

“First we have to take our pick in here,” Mike said. “Is Alice
Underwood home?”

Another series of sneezes came from upstairs.

“Sure. Just follow her nose.”

"What about Alice's son?" Max asked.

"Larry? Moved to California a few years ago. Why you asking?"

"Have you heard anything about him coming back here?"

"No way. Mrs. Underwood only tells me to fix things, not
about thedoings of her son. From what I saw, he wouldn't
be half bad if he didn't act like a punk."

"How so?"

"Ungroomed, wears dirty clothes and I smelt pot on him
a few times."

Mike said, "Ever know him to beat or threaten anyone?"

"No."

Upstairs, someone opened a door, then slammed it shut.
Then came themetallic chatter of a key being inserted in its
lock. Max heard a wet sniffle. Footfalls neared the staircase.

A dark-haired, middle-aged woman marched down the
stairs. Her nosewas red and shadowy bags underlaid her eyes.

The super said, "Mrs. Underwood, these detectives would
like a few words."

Alice frowned and said, "Only a few. I'm on my way to work."

The super said, "Thought this was your day off."

"Someone else is sick, Mr. Freeman." Alice pulled out a tissue
and blew her nose.

Max said, "Mrs. Underwood, has Larry been in touch with you
lately?"

Alice let the corners of her mouth turn down. "No ... why?"

"We have reason to believe he's coming here."

"Is there a warrant on him?"

"We just want to ask a few questions." Max said without lying.
Hejust wasn't revealing the whole truth. He would seek
some answers from Larry ... and serve the arrest warrant
from Santa Monica.

“What’s this about!” Alice barked. “Is someone hurt and
they’re blaming Larry? He doesn’t hurt people ... not physically.”

Before either cop could reply, they heard a car. A dusty
Datsun 280 ZX stopped alongside the curb behind the shell
of an Eldorado. A weary-looking young man stepped out of
the Datsun, walked to the lobby, and noticed the people inside.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

Max badged the guy. “Larry Underwood?”

“Yes.”

Mike presented a paper and said, “Baby, can you dig this warrant?
Larry Underwood, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mark Faro.”
Max handcuffed Larry as the wide-eyed Alice and stone-faced
Freeman watched.

******************************************************************************

Interrogation room, 27th Precinct
3:44 P.M.

Max shook his head in disbelief at what Underwood had told him.
“Let’s see if I heard right ... you’re a big star with a hit single, yet
you’re broke.”

Larry shrugged. “Yeah ... a party gone bad can do that. House got
trashed, a few people OD’d and had to go to the hospital. They’re
okay now, but ... well, insurance ain’t exactly universal in the USA.”

“So you’re one of those celebrities who can’t behave and who draws
groupies of like kind.” Max shook his head. “My daughter’s a big fan
of yours. First thing I’m going to tell her tonight is she’ll never be
allowed to get near you.”

Mike said, “Give him a break, Max. At least he didn’t get bankrupt
buying a collection of Ferraris or Lamborghinis. He drives Japanese.”

Larry turned to Mike and said, “If I weren’t in such a good mood
I’d say you were patronizing me. Look, I know ‘bad cop, good cop,’
so let’s cut the bullshit.”

Max said, “That works both ways, Underwood. Tell us why you
killed Faro.”

“I didn’t.”

Mike grinned fiercely and said, “Come on! The guy owed you and
wouldn’t pay, so you got pissed off and next thing you knew...”

“I never touched him, except to give him a napkin. He had a cold,
his nose was streaming like Niagara Falls. Came on suddenly.”

“That’s not going to get you off.”

Someone knocked on the door, then Cragen and a uniformed officer
entered. Cragen said, “Sorry to break this party, but there’s been a
shooting at PS 67.”

Mike said, “PS 666 you mean, Captain.” He turned to Larry. “Take my
advice -- when you’re back in Santa Monica, plead to manslaughter.
A few years in the slam, then you’re out on parole.”

Larry shook his head.

****************************************************************************

"You keep saying how the nuns beat you," Max said as he and Mike
left the interrogation room. "At least no one packed guns in your school."

"Yeah ... the sisters of mercy ruled," Mike replied.

"I know your secret fear. You're hit with a paternity suit. You lose,
and you have to pay child support, including private school enrollment."

"I would pay. No way I'd let any kid of mine in a New York PS."

By 3:55, Max and Mike were at PS 67. It was housed in a grimy,
graffiti-covered brick building. The largest lettering read BLOODS
RULE. Several other police units were present, as was a coroner's
wagon. Dozens of people, mostly women, surrounded the school.
Their yells were almost loud enough to hurt Max's ears as he and
Mike left the cruiser and entered the building.

Two Afro boys and a Hispanic girl lay dead in the tiny library. All
three had been shot in the back of the skull. None of them appeared
to be older than twelve.

"God, Mike, it gets worse every year. Where's the cure?"

Mike sneezed.

***************************************************************

Principal Horace Crawford seemed out of place, as he looked like
a corpulent Midtown executive. He was an inch taller than Max
and appeared to be thirty or forty pounds heavier. After
introducing himself, he offered Max and Mike a bag of jelly
doughnuts.

“No, thanks.” Max said. Crawford reminded him of Lieutenant Erwin
Sprungmann, the worst squad commander he’d served under.
Crawford, like Sprungmann, didn’t seem to be interested in anything
other than food. “We’d like to talk to the kids,” Max added, just to
bring Crawford’s mind back to the subject at hand.

“I got ‘em cooped up,” Crawford said. “Follow me.”

Crawford led Max and Mike along the hallway. Just before they
reached the doors to the auditorium, Mike sneezed again.

“I’m allergic to old paint,” Mike said, eyeing the walls, which looked
like they were coated with stale pea puree.

If true, a new development, Max thought -- he and Mike
had been in other buildings where the paint was peeling just as badly.

“Then you’ll love this,” Crawford said, opening the doors. “Don’t
blame me, blame the budget.”

The auditorium was in worse shape than the halls. About twice as
much of the paint had peeled off, and the ceiling had numerous
brown stains. Mike muttered, “Watch the ratshit,” and on the floor
there were indeed pellets of the type that rodents laid.

A couple of hundred kids, all glaring white eyes against varying
shades of brown, stood sullenly. Every one was an Afro, a Hispanic,
or a blend of the two; there was not a natural blond or red in the
house. No Orientals either. So much for the long-ago attempts to
integrate big-city schools by busing.

Some of the children were coughing or sneezing. This was not
at all unusual in a poor inner-city school, Max knew. Many of the
kids came to school with empty bellies, and were so poor that they
couldn’t afford the $1 lunch fee. The fee was supposed to be waived
for the most destitute, but, from what Max had heard, the practice
at PS 67 was quite different.

A thin middle-aged woman with iron-peppered silver hair over an
ebony face approached from the hall. She bent to the principal and
whispered, “Mr. Crawford, we’ve identified the dead children.”

“At last,” Mike said, pulling out his notebook and pen. “Who
were they?”

“George and Malcolm Robinson, and Grace Vidigal.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. He glared at Crawford and bared his
teeth, saying, “You head this school and you don’t take the time
to know your kids, to keep this place clean and safe.”

“I ... I have to stay under budget.”

“Right. You’re just following orders. You’d have done real well
under Hitler. Sieg Heil!”

Max nudged Mike and said, “That’s enough,” although he wouldn’t
have minded a prolonged Logan rant. Someone had to cut a new
asshole for this sorry excuse of a principal. “Let’s talk to the kids.”

“Just so you know,” Crawford said, “there isn’t a working microphone.”
Max noticed the nicotine stains on Crawford’s fingers and teeth.

Max said, “Fear not. My partner and I don’t smoke. Maybe you
should address them anyway.”

“I’d rather not. My throat is kind of sore this afternoon.”

“Good God,” Mike muttered, echoing Max’s thought.

The three men walked up to the stage, where a wooden lectern
waited.

Many of the eyes that faced Max had the same leaden look you
saw in hardened criminals who were under arrest or detention.
Others glanced around fearfully. Still others looked dull -- from
hunger, drugs or both, Max guessed. A thin dark girl maybe eight
years old who had the face of an Afro and the straight hair of a
Hispanic looked at Max and Mike as if she recognized them.

Max remembered her from nineteen months ago, when he and
Mike were investigating the attack on Councilman Halsey. A young
punk named Simoniz Jackson had robbed the unconscious Halsey
and stashed the loot in his grandmother’s apartment. Max and
Mike had entered the building -- a wreck, since demolished -- and
encountered a little girl sitting by herself in a stairwell. Max
guessed at once that druggies were using her as a lookout.

“Are you The Man?” she said in a surprisingly innocent tone after
Max and Mike walked past her.

“We sure are, honey,” Max replied, aware that the kid could go
either way.

She didn’t flee upstairs as he expected, but eavesdropped as the
detectives searched Mrs. Jackson’s apartment -- Max heard her
footsteps. He saw her again as she was returning to her spot.
Hardly a crack lookout.

But she was an impoverished child in East Harlem’s worst block
(at the time; now it was being gentrified with beautiful new condos)
and probably under the sway of people who would lead her into
early dropout, drugs and prostitution.

Looking around the auditorium, Max could see that many of
the kids around her had already been led the wrong way and were
lost in a forest of vices.

******************************************************************************

Profaci had bad news written on his face when Max and Mike returned
to the precinct house just before 6:30.

“Donny’s not here,” Profaci said. “Madge had a stroke and is on life
support. He’s at her side.”

“Where!” Max barked.

“NYU, but visitors aren’t allowed. Except Donny.”

“This is terrible,” Max said, pulling off his hat. “She’s not even
forty. And she’s fit.”

“Yeah,” Profaci said, stroking his plump belly. “Our new boss is
Captain James Deitz, and he wants your update ASAP.”

Max and Mike went to the captain’s office. Deitz was lean and
dark-haired, with a gaze that could chill molten basalt. After Max
and Mike introduced themselves, Deitz said, “Tell me about 67.”

“No suspect yet ... no one’s willing to talk,” Max said, “at least
in the open. We expect some anonymous tips.”

“Did you figure the motive?”

“It’s rumored that one of the Robinson boys was wooing Grace
Vidigal. Black boy and Hispanic girl ... cross-ethnic love seems
to be getting unhealthy.”

“What about a weapon?”

“We found 22-caliber shell casings in the library where the shootings
took place. We searched for the gun, supervised the custodians
as they took apart the toilets...”

“Probably their first real work in a week,” Mike said, wiping his
nose.

Deitz gazed coldly at Mike, then turned to Max. Deitz said, “Did
they find a gun or not?”

Max said, “They found seven ... none recently fired. Lots of knives,
pipes, wrenches and re-bars, too. And drugs -- crack, heroin,
marijuana, speed.”

“God,” Deitz said. “I want you two back in ...”

The desk phone buzzed. Deitz picked up and barked, “What!” just
as Donny often did. Max wondered who had acquired the habit first.

Deitz covered the mouthpiece with his free hand and shouted, “Get
lost, and close the door!”

Max and Mike did as Deitz told them. They could just hear Deitz
saying, “Dick, how are you?”

******************************************************************************

Center for Disease Control
Atlanta, Georgia
6:31 P.M.

“I’m back on cigs again,” said Colonel Dick Deitz, “but it doesn’t
matter. There’s a new disease spreading across America, James.
It infects all but five or six out of every thousand, and it’s 100 % fatal.”

“Dick, if this is your idea of a joke...”

“No joke. It’s a type of flu, superflu, so contagious people call it
Captain Trips. My source in New York says the trucker who crashed
at the Lincoln Tunnel this morning had it, but it’s not bothering
him any more.”

“You mean...”

“Funeral March is the only music he understands now. But
don’t blame him -- Captain Trips probably arrived at the Big Apple
a couple days ago.”

“We haven’t noticed anything unusual. What are the signs?”

“There are four stages. First stage has no outward symptoms, but
the host is infectious and has fluctuating blood pressure. Second
stage mimics the common cold or hay fever, with BP more
variable. Third stage is like a combination of flu, bronchitis and
mono. The terminal stage is the real beaut, like pneumonia, plague
and hemorrhagic fever all in one. Air leaks out of your lungs and
puffs up your neck. The lymph and thyroid glands swell, too, and
between everything you look like you swallowed a tire tube."

“Those BP fluctuations, could they cause stroke?”

“Indeed they can. Some people drop before their organs fail.”

“God ... wait a minute, Dick, if this Captain is kicking ass
cross-country, how come there hasn’t been any news?”

“Military’s got the lid on. We’ll be announcing a vaccine tonight, but
that’s just bullshit to keep the cows content until the slaughter is over.”

“How ... how long do people live with this once they’re sick?”

“Most cases, anywhere from two days to a week. A few may last
two weeks or so, and some few go through all four stages within
a day. There’s much individual and regional variation, except that
Captain Trips is invariably fatal.”

“When and where did this start? Wait ... that June 17th story about
anthrax in Texas?”

“Yup. Listen, James, I’ve got patients to tend and I told way too
much soon as we started talking.” Dick hung up without saying
goodbye, but he knew that it didn’t matter. He smoked his cigarette
and wondered if Cousin James would go back to the bottle.

******************************************************************************

27th Precinct headquarters, 6:53 P.M.

Several dozen people had phoned the NYPD to offer information
about the killer at PS67. Most of the tips were dubious -- the
caller named someone, but sounded flaky, didn’t seem to know
much about the crime, didn’t ask for Greevey or Logan and wanted
to remain anonymous. Names from such calls were put on a
‘Blue List’ -- blue meaning cold, to be checked after the next
Ice Age.

Some tips, however, were potentially good. These people asked
for Greevey or Logan, indicating that they’d seen the detectives
in the auditorium. The cops put names from these callers on a ‘Red List.’

Three callers seemed to be particularly solid. They were caregivers
(one uncle, one grandfather, one mother) to children who attended
PS 67 and claimed to know the killer’s identity. All three had
named a Brent Gill (who was on the Red List five times over, more
often than any other name) as the shooter, and were willing to let
their kids give formal statements.

Max noticed movement at the entrance. Profaci was talking to
a young woman -- part Afro, but with straight hair. She was holding
a child by the hand. The child peered around Profaci’s bulk, and
Max recognized her at once as a kid who’d been in the auditorium ...
and nineteen months earlier, a stairwell.

Profaci ushered the pair to Max’s desk, and introduced them. The
woman was Marilee Willow, and her daughter was Atlanta, age nine.

They had no trouble picking Gill’s photo from the “family album”
(Gill had served brief terms at Spofford for robbery and weapon
possession). Gill was a 14-year-old sixth grader who had a
reputation as a bully. On one occasion, he had roughed up a boy
on 126th Street until Marilee chased him away.

By 7:25, Marilee and Atlanta had finished writing their statements.
Marilee was quite literate. Atlanta’s work had a few spelling
mistakes, but looked intelligent and honest. Max telephoned
Paul Robinette while Mike faxed the statements to him. Several
minutes later, Paul called back and said it was time to pick Gill up.
Max and Mike went to the captain’s office to give their new
commander the good news.

They heard retching and coughing. Max opened the door and saw
Deitz leaning over a wastebasket, barking fit to turn his lungs
inside out.

“Captain, do you want help?” Max said, rushing to Deitz’s side.
To Mike: “Get him a glass of water.”

“Sick, am I?” Deitz slurred, looking up from the basket. “That’s
nothing. Just you wait.”

The smell of alcohol was strong, and a bottle of Four Roses
bourbon with half of its contents gone stood on the desk. Max
looked at Deitz with disgust; here was a guy who was worse
than Sprungmann.

But Deitz was brass; on that account, Max kept his tone
deferential as he said, “Let’s get you to the couch, sir.” Once
Deitz was lying down, Max put the wastebasket near him.

Mike returned with a glass and a pitcher. As he gave the glass
of water to Deitz, someone -- Profaci -- opened the door.
Profaci said, “Guys, the Chief...”

As Profaci spoke, a burly silver-haired man marched inside. Max
recognized him at once -- Chief of Detectives Kerry Sheppard,
whose piercing gray eyes shifted between Deitz and the bottle.

“Unless my senses are lying, Captain, you’re drunk as a skunk.”

Deitz said, “Yes, Chief ... dead drunk.”

The Chief turned to Max and Mike. “I want a full report from every
person in this squad, starting from when Captain Deitz took charge.
You are to include details about how he behaved, what orders he
gave, how and when you discovered that he was intoxicated, and
what you did.”

“Yes, sir,” Max said. “But first we have a killer to catch.”

Fifty minutes later, at 8:21, Max spotted Brent Gill on 126th Street
just west of Fifth Avenue. Gill was miming gunplay with both hands
as he talked with three other boys in front of Ty’s Pharmacy. One
boy was drinking from a small bottle.

Max called in the location as Mike eased the cruiser to a stop.
Max stepped out. Mike drove the car several dozen yards ahead
and parked it where he could cut off Gill’s escape route.

Max stalked closer to the group. He got within twenty feet of the
group before Gill spotted him.

Gill ran, and Max gave chase almost casually, confident that Mike
would nab him.

Except that Mike wasn’t there.

“NYPD, Gill!” Max bellowed. “Stop right there!”

Gill kept his legs flailing, kept gaining distance from Max. Gill
turned his head, thrust out his tongue...

...and was tackled by a beefy uniformed cop. They hit the
sidewalk hard. The cop’s partner rushed to them and handcuffed Gill.

Max was panting when he arrived. He said, “Thanks, guys.
Read ‘im his rights while I check my partner.”

Mike said in a wheezy voice, “You called?”

“Gill’s bagged, no thanks to you. What happened?”

“Sorry, Max, I ... can’t catch my breath.” Mike let out a series of
croupy coughs.

One of Gill’s friends approached Mike and offered him the
drinking bottle. The boy said, “Hey man, you need a buddy.”

The bottle had a happy face and the title FLU BUDDY.

******************************************************************************

Home of the Greevey family
987 Jewel Avenue, Queens
10:06 P.M.

“Are you feeling all right?” Marie said to Max.

“Yeah, just tired. This has been such a weird day. Mike and I
busted a big-time entertainer, then helped nab a boy who killed
three other kids ... actually, Mike wasn’t part of that because
he got sick.” Max sighed, then drew in a breath. “Madge
had a stroke.”

“Oh, no! How is she?”

“No idea. I tried Patient Enquiry at NYU, but they wouldn’t
release any info. Wouldn’t let me speak to Don, either.”

“Maybe he’s at home.”

“He’d be at her side as much as possible, but you could be
right.” Max tried Don’s home number, and connected with the
answering machine. He said, “Donny, this is Max. I’m praying for
Madge. Let me know soon as you can, anytime. I’m home.
Take care.”

Max hung up, shook his head and looked at Marie. “I know
someone who’s going to be staying home for a while.
Donny’s replacement, Captain James Deitz. Got puking drunk
his very first hour in command.”

“His only hour, I hope.”

“Looks like something spooked him.” He remembered how
brusque Deitz had been on taking a call from “Dick.” He turned
back to the telephone, punched a number, and told the other
end to list all calls from 1800 to 1930 involving the telephone
in Cragen’s office. Should’ve thought of this earlier. Maybe I’m
getting old.

His ears weren’t getting old yet -- he could hear the faint
creaking noises of someone, probably Eileen, eavesdropping
from the nearby hallway. He let his voice rise to a bellow as he
said, “That entertainer we busted was Larry Underwood, who will
never be allowed to come near any of our kids!” His reward came
as a series of retreating creaks.

Marie said. “That arrest made the news. They say he’ll be sent
back to California tomorrow.”

Max frowned. “Never mind the Golden State, what about the
Gambling State?”

Marie wiped her nose. “Didn’t have time to gamble. This truck
almost hit us at the Lincoln Tunnel. Wrecked...”

“I know. Three cars.”

“It was a miracle only the trucker died. He was sick.
The paramedic said maybe flu and mono, but I don’t know ...
he was awfully swollen for either. Anyway, we were stuck for
almost three hours and decided there was no point in going all
the way to AC, so we hiked the Palisades. A nice healthful walk.”

Max stayed up late enough to catch part of Action 65 News at 10.
Two boys were in critical condition after being attacked at
Robert Woodley High School in the South Bronx. School trustee
Harold Baldwin was under investigation for tax fraud. Alleged
mob boss Giancarlo Uzielli of Staten Island had been acquitted
of racketeering and extortion charges. And in sports, the Mets
blew out the Dodgers, 16 to 1. Several of the Dodgers’ top stars
were on the sick list.

**************************************************************

When Max went to bed, he fell asleep almost at once. He found
himself cruising through familiar Harlem neighbourhoods where
gang graffiti covered every wall, skels waited for buyers or vics,
and dirty old cars sheltered many of the homeless.

A young woman wearing the slick fluorescent clothes of a
prostitute carried a boom box. Max blinked, and she was gone,
replaced by an old woman as dark and wrinkled as a too-dry
prune. The box had turned to a wooden guitar, and the city was
gone to corn ... corn everywhere, ripe for harvest. The woman
played slow mellow notes on her guitar.
She said, Welcome to my land, Max. Watch out for the
dark man.

A crow landed on the windshield wiper in front of him, blocking
his view of the woman. A mellow man’s voice said Come
with me, Max. See your true future.

The woman cried, He is the dark man, Max, the prince of...
Her voice was drowned by the hiss of a sandstorm. Max had just
enough time to see the corn go brown before the blowing sand
obscured it. The crow clung to the wiper blade, its big red eye as
bright as a jacklight.

The wind subsided; the air cleared. Max found himself in
another city, full of sparkling new buildings with gold-plated
windows and glittering lights everywhere. The walls and pavement
were clean. Every car sparkled. Tunic-clad children, as still and
silent as statues, stood in line at the entrance to their school.

Peace and good order, Max. Help make it happen on my team.

****************************************************************************************************************************

27th Precinct headquarters
7:57 AM Thursday, June 21

Mike Logan looked tired as he entered the squad room, but
his voice sounded almost normal as he said good morning
to Max.

Max said, “Feel better? Good. I got the LUD on Donny’s office
phone from yesterday. Around half past six, Deitz took a call
from the Center for Disease Control in Georgia.”

“And you think that’s what drove him to drink? Something’s
fishy, that’s for sure. Donny’s not at home and NYU doesn’t
seem to know him or Madge.”

“A transfer, maybe.”

“Wouldn’t make sense -- NYU’s as good as they come for
stroke. Did their best to save my mother. Anyway, I talked to
a guy who said he’d check, then after six minutes on hold I
was cut off.”

“Like the stonewalling I got this morning. Let’s talk to Deitz,”
Max said, reaching for the police telephone directory. He
found Deitz’s home number and telephoned it, but only an
answering machine replied. He called Deitz’s office, where
a woman told him that Captain Deitz was on sick leave.

“Heads up,” Profaci said. “The Chief of Ds is coming and
he’s got a new guy.”

Chief Sheppard entered the squad room. With him was a tall,
fit-looking man who wore an impeccable gray suit. His
short-cropped fair hair was just starting to become silvery
at the temples.

Sheppard said, “People, may I have your attention, please!”
He gestured to his companion. “This is Captain James Deakins,
who’s in charge of this precinct’s detectives as of now.”

“Thank you, Chief Sheppard.” Deakins’ voice was a strong
baritone. “I feel honored to have command of this fine group.
I’ll be calling each of you to my office by turns so that you can
update me on your latest cases.”

My office, he said, Max thought. That’s Donny’s office!

Max felt his heart race as he thought about the possibility
that he would never see Donny Cragen again.

With Deakins at his side, Sheppard said, “Greevey, Logan
... come with us.” The four men went to the captain’s office,
where Sheppard told Logan to close the door.

Sheppard said, “What have you found out about Deitz?”

Max noticed that Sheppard had not mentioned Deitz’s rank.
He said, “Deitz took a call from the Center for Disease Control
at 1830 yesterday. Someone named Dick. Deitz told us to
get lost, and ever since you dismissed him, Chief, he’s
been lost. He’s not answering his home phone and no one
seems to know where he is.”

Mike said, “Captain Cragen is in the same boat. Ever since his wife...”

“That’s not your concern,” Sheppard said.

“Bullshit, Chief! I’ve worked with him...”

“Now work with us. We’re just as concerned as you
are, but there are other priorities.” Sheppard looked at Deakins
as Mike rolled his eyes.

Deakins said, “Like the case of Brent Gill. Guys, it’s hard to
believe that he planned the murders by himself. His IQ is
in the low eighties, below the standard deviation.”

“I know, Captain,” Max said, “and we asked him if he shot
those three on behalf of someone else. He denied that.”

“Talk to his friends. Some of them have histories.”

******************************************************************************

The staff at Ty’s Pharmacy knew about the gang that Brent Gill
belonged to. Its members were often seen going in and out of
a four-storey brownstone across the street. At 10:15 A.M., Max
and Mike approached the building. A boy who looked no older
than eleven fled upstairs and yelled.

Max and Mike ran after him. They saw him run up to the fourth
floor. By the time they reached the top landing, Max couldn’t
see anyone, or hear anything above his panting -- or Mike’s.
Mike was winded, his skin wet and pale. Max had never seen
him that way after running up only four floors.

“Better breathe quiet or we may lose these guys,” Max whispered.

“I’m ... trying.”

“More trying than ever. I’m worried about you.”

“We got ‘em!” called a voice from below. “Second floor!”

Max and Mike went downstairs, aware that the young lookout
had been a lure. Thank God for backup, Max thought. On the
second floor he saw two smug-looking uniformed cops,
Branner and Merkell, standing near three teenage boys who
were leaning against the wall with their hands splayed above
their heads.

Branner said, “Always happy to bag ‘em for the gold shields.”

Mike coughed several times.

“Geez, Detective, you sound like hell.”

“Must be those comics he collects,” Merkell said. “You know ...
Devil Kids starring Hot Stuff.”

“Devil kids don’t come in comics any more,” Branner said.
He waved a hand at the detainees. “They’re flesh and blood.
Wait’ll you see what we found.”

“A murder of ravens,” Max said, gazing at the dozen or so
Phoenix Arms Raven pistols which filled a handbag. He glared
at the kids and shouted, “Army recruiting office is just five
blocks from here!”

“We’re a army already,” the largest kid said. “So don’t you mess...”

Mike smacked the kid’s checkerboarded hair. “Shut up.”

The youth glared at Mike, eyes wide to show the whites
like a baboon in threat posture.

******************************************************************************

By 10:50, the three boys -- Barry ‘Checkerboard’ Warwick,
Clarence Moore and Samuel Chiniquy -- were waiting at
Interrogation Room 2. They were silent, having demanded to
see a lawyer.

Deakins stood beside Max and Mike. He said, “Brent Gill will
be here in an hour. So will Larry Underwood.”

“What gives with Underwood?” Max asked.

“Santa Monica wants him back pronto. Greevey, I’d like you
to escort him -- next flight to LAX leaves in just over three
hours.”

Max said, “Fine with me, Captain.” He was looking forward to
seeing Barry Dorgan for the first time in years.

******************************************************************************

JUSTICE AINT BLIND. DEATH IS! These dark red block letters,
the color of dried blood, held Larry’s eye. Someone had printed
them on the wall one foot above the stainless steel toilet-sink
combo. Justice was not color-blind, Larry thought. Certainly not
in New York City.

Most of the inmates were dark-skinned -- Afro or Hispanic.
Larry was part of a pale minority. Many of the low-ranking
guards were also dark, and you could make a good guess
about a guard’s rank by the color of his skin. These guys
hadn’t exactly been trained by the Marine Corps, Larry thought,
not with the numerous beer guts and wrinkled
uniforms among them.

Larry had heard that Rikers Island was home to America’s
largest penal colony. He was staying at the George Motchan
Detention Center, a modern low-rise building which, he’d been
told, was supposed to house 2,500 inmates. It seemed to be
full and then some. There were nine other jails on Rikers and
the total Rikers prison population, according to a fat guard
named Blackstone, was around 13,000. A nice figure for a
Nazi concentration camp, Larry thought.

“Hey, Underwood!” Blackstone yelled. “Front ‘n center. You’re
going for a ride.”

Larry shuddered. Justice could lay harsh eyes on people
who fell from grace. This murder accusation was a very
bad fall.

Blackstone shackled Larry’s wrists and ankles, then led
him to a van. Its driver, a huge gray-haired guy who probably
outweighed Blackstone and Larry together, snuffled and blew
his nose.

Larry said, “Watch what you’re taking for that cold. Could be
bad for the baby.”

The driver balled a ham-size fist. “Wash your mouth, asshole.
Better guys than you lose teeth on my bus.” He sneezed,
blowing hot snot all over Larry’s face.

Blackstone sat Larry down four rows behind the driver and said, “Let’s go.”

The driver couldn’t stop sneezing as he guided the van along
Rikers Island Bridge. Traffic was light on the bridge, but heavier
on Hazen Street.

The driver made a horrible retching noise and flailed in his seat.
The van accelerated into the oncoming lane, where a tanker
truck loomed, WHONNNK!

“Lance!” Blackstone barked, leaping to the driver. He grabbed
the wheel and swerved out of the truck’s path, but Lance was
convulsing hard on the accelerator pedal. The van skidded
out of control and crashed into a gas bar, knocking over a
pump before coming to rest against the attendant’s booth.
The impact slammed Larry against the seat in front, bolting
pain in his arms and chest.

He scuttled to the front, where Blackstone and Lance lay
unconscious. Lance’s limbs twitched intermittently, and his
breaths sounded wet. With the smell of gas getting stronger,
Larry slapped his hands against the door -- to no avail.

“Help! I’m trapped!” Larry pounded the door. His heart
raced. “Goddammit, someone get me out!”

He darted his eyes around, searching for a baton, a
flashlight, an extinguisher -- anything to bust the glass.
There was indeed a fire extinguisher beside the driver. He
grabbed it, but couldn’t pull it free. Fuck me, this is a
stupid way to go!

He noticed the lever to the driver’s right, like the lever in
a school bus. He turned it ... and the door folded open as
easy as pie.

He scrambled out as quickly as his shackled limbs would
let him. He looked around, not sure of where to go or what
to do.

A siren whooped, then a police car screeched to a stop just
four feet from Larry. A cop about Larry’s age aimed his gun
and bawled, “You! Hands on your head! Down on the ground!”

Larry obeyed, and a series of coughs from the van reminded
him why the cop was so angry. Larry had forgotten about the
guards and would have left them to die.

******************************************************************************

Max got word of Larry Underwood’s accident at 11:15. The
officer in charge of the scene told him that Underwood seemed
to have nothing worse than bruises, but two DOC officers
were headed to hospital in serious condition, one of them with
breathing difficulty and swelling around the neck.

“Keep Underwood where he is,” Max said, “and keep your eyes
on him. We’ll be right over.”

Max and Mike arrived nine minutes later. They saw three fire
trucks, four police cruisers and a DOC sedan, all with their
emergency lights flashing. The wrecked van and pump were
at rest beside the attendant’s booth. The attendant, a
wide-shouldered Hispanic woman who was maybe pushing
forty, chewed gum as she sat on the rear seat of a cruiser.

Mike cleared his throat. “Lucky this place didn’t go sky-high.”

A uniformed sergeant crooked his thumb at the woman.
“Ms. Martinez cut the power just before impact.”

Mike turned to Martinez. “Long life to you, ma’am.” Coughs
erupted before he could cover his mouth -- only four, but they
sounded nasty. “Sorry.”

Max said, “Did you see what went on in the van?”

“Looked like someone was struggling with the driver.”

“The prisoner?”

“Don’t know. So many reflections on the windshield, I just
saw shadows. Then I realized I better switch off fast.”

“Some people can’t stay on a ringside seat,” Mike said. He patted
Martinez’s shoulder and added, “Thanks.”

Max turned to the sarge again and said, “Where’s Underwood?”
As he spoke, he noticed Underwood in the back seat of a cruiser.
Underwood’s head was low ; it was hard to tell whether he was
sullen or ashamed.

Larry noticed the two cops who had arrested him yesterday. Their
faces were grimly set as they marched to him. The older detective
glared at him with harsh piggish eyes.

“You don’t change your style, do you!” Greevey bellowed.
“You attacked the driver and beat his neck...”

“I never touched him! He was sick!”

“With swelling on the neck, just like Mark Faro.”

“I told you, Mark was fine when I left him. Just a cold is all.
I’m sorry he’s dead...”

“Hope you have sorries to spare,” Logan said. “First Faro, now
a pair of DOC officers who are hurt bad.”

Greevey said, “Tell us what happened, from the moment you
boarded the bus at Rikers.”

“The driver was sneezing, real bad nose cold. That snot on
my face is his. But I never attacked him. How could I? I was
cuffed and those guys were big ... especially the driver, he’s a
fucking mountain. One handcuffed me versus two free-handed
guards, sort of like Crispin Glover taking on Hulk Hogan and
André the Giant, know what I mean?” Larry talked for a few
more minutes, describing the crash and his attempts to get out.

Greevey jabbed a finger at Larry. “If you’re lying, Underwood,
the troubles ahead will make what’s happened up to now look
like a speeding ticket.”

Larry watched as Greevey and Logan left the cruiser and walked
to a DOC car. As the detectives spoke to the man inside, Greevey
shook his head.

It looked like the cops and Corrections guys had made up their
minds about Larry. I’m dead, he thought, feeling his heart
race faster than ever.

“Underwood’s guilty of something,” Max said, “but he
denies attacking the guards and we see no reason to assume he’s lying.”

“If they cuffed and watched him properly, no way,” the DOC
supervisor said. His pocket phone chimed and he pulled it out.
He spoke into it, giving his last name. “Nichol ... did he say what
happened? What about Lance?” After a pause, he thanked the caller
and folded the phone.

Mike cleared his throat and said, “What’s the word?”

“Lance is on life support ... very ill. Blackstone says he convulsed,
lost control.”

“Sounds like Underwood’s off the hook,” Max said, “in this
town, anyway.”

“Maybe so,” Nichol said, “but he’s a witness and he’ll stay put
until our investigation is complete.”

Max said, “Tough on him.”

******************************************************************************

The man who came to see Max that night looked like a younger,
long-haired Captain Deakins. He said, Murderers, rapists,
drug addicts, irresponsible entertainers (a picture of Larry
Underwood appeared on a nearby wall) ... you’ve locked
them up. You’ve worked hard and well, but your environment
has been out of control for years. Max stood on a litter-covered
street among grimy brownstones, where spray-painted letters
snaked over the walls and skels lounged in many of the doorways.
‘Young Deakins’ swept an arm, and Max beheld a gleaming
city of glass and brass, lights and steel.

This is my city, Max. Fresh and clean. Help us keep it so.

A gleaming Chevy cruiser pulled up and Barry Dorgan stepped
outside. He said, We need you on Team Vegas, Max.

Mit uns, Max, said the Deakins-like man, whose words
produced a fleeting image of a Nazi poster ... a stern blond man
wearing a brown shirt and swastika armband, and the slogan
mit uns ... ‘with us.’

******************************************************************************************************************************

6:07 A.M. Friday, June 22

The Greeveys were early risers. Adam had already left to deliver
two hundred-odd copies of the Ledger. Eileen was
sitting in her room, hunched over a textbook; she had final
exams today. Matthew would be awake within an hour -- if
Marie’s coughs and sneezes hadn’t already awakened him.

Marie had hardly slept. Her sniffles escalated into a chest cold,
which by midnight became feverish enough for flu. Over the small
hours her temperature spiked as high as 103, and the Tylenol
didn’t seem to work until half an hour ago when the fever
suddenly broke. The coughing had also stopped and the only
lingering sign of her illness was a sniffly nose.

Max said, “You rest, honey. I’ll take care of the kitchen and kids.”
He kissed Marie’s damp forehead, put on his slippers, and padded
to the kitchen.

He turned on the coffee machine and the radio. The Mets-Dodgers
game had been canceled due to a gas leak at Dodger Stadium. The
Anaheim Angels were fighting a “stomach bug” and would send
replacement players to Yankee Stadium. An inter-school tennis
tournament at the Louis Armstrong Stadium in Flushing Meadows
-- on Adam’s route -- had been canceled because two visiting
teams from Los Angeles had missed their ‘plane. Maybe Adam
wouldn’t have such heavy store bundles today.

*****************************************************************************

At a shed near the Flushing sports complex, Adam and the
other carriers wondered when the Ledger truck would
arrive. It was more than two hours overdue and the oldest
carrier -- a middle-aged executive type who was substituting
for his sick son -- said he’d have to call someone else if the
papers didn’t come soon.

The morning traffic was heavy, and Adam didn’t hear the truck
until it was less than half a block away. The driver was a fat
middle-aged guy who Adam didn’t know. He looked a lot less
friendly than Joe Cerniglia, the regular driver.

“What’re you fucks waiting for!” the driver barked even before
he stopped. “Unload the fucking papers, I’m way behind!”

“What happened to Joe?” Adam asked.

“Sick as a...”

“I know, a darn dog.”

*****************************************************************************

6:22 A.M.

“Are you going to talk to Larry Underwood again?” Eileen Greevey asked.

Max shook his head. “I don’t want you thinking about him. Promise
me you’ll put him out of your mind.”

“I don’t like to promise anything...”

“Eileen!” Max barked. “Exams.”

“Okay Dad, I promise I won’t sing any Underwood songs in the
exam room.”

Max grimaced. “Your smartass attitude will be easier to take
if you do well.”

Eileen opened her mouth to reply, and that was when the telephone
rang. She answered with, “Hello, this is the Greevey house ... yes,
Captain Deakins, he’s right here.”

Max took the handset and said, “Yessir.”

“Lance died ten minutes ago. The M.E. will start a post at 0700.”

“On my way, Captain.”

Max replaced the handset and jabbed a finger at Eileen. “Make sure
Matt gets a good breakfast and is ready to go in time. And look after
Mom.” He traded fast hugs and kisses with his daughter, then marched
to Matthew’s bedroom. Two minutes later he returned to the kitchen,
where Eileen was eating cereal while listening to Neil Diamond’s
Morningside.

He turned down the radio and said, “Disregard what I told you about Matt. He has a fever.”

A long series of croupy barks sounded from Matthew’s bedroom.

******************************************************************************

7:16 A.M.

Medical Examiner Arlene Shrier looked pale and shaky as she pulled
back flaps of flesh around Gordon Lance’s neck. Close by, Max found
himself glad that he had not eaten much breakfast. All around the neck
were dark purple growths which looked cancerous.

“One of these days they’ll say tobacco does that, too,” Max
said, pointing.

“I don’t think so,” Arlene said. “We’ve seen over a hundred bodies whose
necks are as swollen as his. Only reason you don’t see any other is that
Army and CDC folk have taken most of them away.”

“What’s going on? A couple days ago I heard about a case in Santa Monica
with swelling like that. Cop friend of mine said it was caused by a beating.”

“Don’t you believe it. We’re dealing with a new...”

The growing sound of footfalls silenced her.

Footsteps came closer to the door, then stopped. Max heard faint rustling
noises, as of someone fumbling with canvas.

Max peered out the door and saw a sweaty young man wearing a bright
yellow plastic suit. The guy was struggling to fasten it properly. When he
saw Max, his eyes went wide ... and grew wider as Max stepped
into the hall.

“W-who are you?” the young man whispered.

“Sergeant Max Greevey, NYPD. And how do I address you, son?”

“Private Reed Lineback ... we’re supposed to wear these all the time but...”

“What’s going on? I hear the Army’s taking bodies.”

“I ... I’m not supposed to tell, an’ I better get this hood on.” Max
noticed that the hood, which was flopping behind Lineback’s head, was fitted with goggles and filters.

Lineback looked even more startled when the door to the autopsy
room swung open. Arlene peered out and said, “Max, Captain Deakins
wants you in his office ASAP. I’ll fax the report.”

“Thanks, Arlene.” Max turned to Lineback, who had just pulled the
hood over his head.

“You’re not gonna report me, are you?” Lineback said, his voice muffled
behind the filters.

Max jabbed a finger and said, “I should.” He marched out of the
building. Part of him was glad that he was leaving, but things
were strange.People around him were disappearing or
getting ill. Donny, Madge and Deitz might was well be on Mars.
Mike was sick; Marie and Matt were dueling their own bugs.
Max felt his heart race.

A few seconds after he drove out of the parking lot, a large
olive-green truck came into view. It was followed by four others.
The occupants were wearing yellow suits like Private Lineback’s.

Frightful tingles played harder over Max’s skin than at any other
time since his rookie year.

***************************************************************

8:18 A.M.

Captain Deakins stood behind his desk. With him was a woman
who was about Max’s age and weight. Deakins introduced her
as Dr. Lotta Matheson of the Center for Disease Control, and said
that she was here to administer flu shots. “Roll up your sleeve for her, Sergeant.”

“Wrong time of year for flu, isn’t it, Doc?” Max said.

Matheson frowned like a stern schoolmistress. “Just do as the Captain says.”

Max pulled off his jacket and rolled his right shirt sleeve. “What I
saw half an hour ago looked a lot more like plague than flu.”

“Where was that!” Matheson barked.

“Medical examiner’s office.”

“Then you must have heard about the new influenza strain.”
Matheson said as she swabbed a spot on Max’s upper arm.

“They didn’t know what it was, except...”

“Our people are there to set them straight.” Matheson reached
in her metal suitcase and pulled out a hypodermic syringe with a premeasured dose. “Do you have HIV?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve little to worry about. This flu hits HIV cases
especially hard, and mimics plague in them. Other people
go down for a week to 10 days, and preventing down time
for you is what this shot is about. And what I’ve told you is
to stay in this room. You’re not to discuss what you’ve heard
or seen. Understand?”

“Perfectly.” Max let the corners of his mouth go down.

“Good.” Matheson jabbed the needle in and pushed the
plunger button with her thumb.

“Doctor Goddess has a sting,” Max told Profaci in the squad
room a few minutes later. “That’s all I can say.”

“She’s also plump,” Profaci said, patting his own bulge. “But
I don’t mind.”

“Excuse me while I make a few calls.” Max reached for his telephone.

“If you want Mikey, I tried a minute ago. No one home.”

“I’m thinking long distance.” Max punched Barry Dorgan’s
number. After a lengthy silence, a synthetic-sounding female
voice told him that his call could not be completed. Shaking
his head, Max replaced the handset.

“310,” Profaci said. “Southern California area code. You’re
not gonna leave us, are you?”

“I’m leaving, all right ... to Rikers.”

*************************************************************

George Motchan Detention Center, Rikers Island
9:53 A.M. Friday, June 22

“You feeling all right, Larry?” Max said.

“For a guy nobody loves, yeah.” Larry shrugged. “Even germs are shunning me.”

“So no coughs, sneezes?”

From a nearby cell came a long series of scratchy-sounding
coughs. Toward the end it seemed like the guy was having trouble pulling air in.

“Nothing.”

Max rubbed the sides of his neck. “And no swelling, right?”

Larry touched his neck. “Not since I had mono in high school.”
He frowned. “What’s your point ... wait, yesterday you said Mark’s
neck was swollen.”

“That’s right. And your driver, he’s dead.”

Larry hung his head. “Oh, no.”

“Dead and swollen ... from a disease. Maybe Mark had the
same disease.”

“Looked like a cold,” Larry said, “and I thought that Lance had
the same type.”

“Maybe he did. Larry, I want you to tell me every detail about
your cross-country trip. Dates, places where you stopped,
who you met, how healthy they were.”

Larry’s eyes widened. “You think I’m spreading ... whatever?”

Max forced a smile. “Nothing would please me more than to
rule you out as a carrier or a murderer.”

“Then you can be happy right now. I never saw Lance before
yesterday. I couldn’t have given him anything.”

Max heard more coughing and retching from one, two, then
several sources beyond the door. Fear sweated out a million
invisible spiderlings. Larry looked like he had the same sensation.

Max swallowed hard. “Describe your trip, Larry. Just for laughs.”

“Worst-looking guy I saw was near Nashville,” Larry said, “in
this real grimy restaurant at a gas bar. Skinny, dirty, unshaven,
wore dark shades in twilight. And he smelled like ammonia.”

“Did he cough or sneeze?”

“Yeah, a few coughs.”

Smoker’s cough, thought Max, and not just
from tobacco. Larry’s skel was a meth user. Crystal meth
was not yet big in NYC, but was a major problem in
southwestern cities and in rural areas across America.
It was addictive and prolonged use wasted the body. Max
thought that countries which penalized drug trafficking by
death were on the right track.

“Was anyone else sick at that place?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, start at the beginning.”

Larry’s story was unremarkable apart from his encounter with
the skel. Max did not think that he had spread any germs. And
he didn’t seem to be a drug user. There were other questions
that Max ought to ask, but he found himself increasingly
uncomfortable with the sickly noises around this room.

Max said, “You got a lawyer?”

“Uh-huh, and soon as he’s over the flu I’ll meet him.”

Max shook his head. “Underwood, I wouldn’t hold my breath. If
he’s not well when you call, find one who’s healthy.”

Footfalls sounded in the hallway. A lean, balding white man in
early middle age and a younger, somewhat heavyset black woman
walked past the window in the door. Both were wearing suits and
Larry guessed that they were attorneys.

Max followed Larry’s gaze and said, “The guy is EADA
Ben Stone and the gal is Shambala Green, a PITA”

Larry shook his head. “I know what PITA means -- I’ve been
called that enough times.”

"I'll bet," Max said, barking a harsh laugh. “Listen, get off your
ass and find someone who’ll work for you. Like Green -- I don’t
believe I’m saying this, but she’s a tough bitch.”

Some of the coughing from across the hall was beginning to
sound strangled, as if the person was losing his ability to breathe.

“Sounds like that guy’s starting to look like Faro,” Max said as
he stood. “Got to go -- lots to do.”

“Yeah,” Larry said, shuddering.

One glance at the sick prisoner was enough for Max. The man’s
orange jumpsuit was speckled with phlegm, and his neck was
puffy with the skin stretched taut enough to shine. Two guards
came marching behind Max, who thought they were heading to
the sick man’s cell ... until they marched past. Their eyes looked
dead, and Max didn’t think that there was any point in yelling at them.

But he yelled anyway. “What’s going on, you just went past a
real sick guy!”

They didn’t turn, but kept their stride until they went around
a corner. Max peered and watched until they stopped in front
of a cell door. One of them pulled out a pocket radio, called a
code -- “deceased person” -- then sneezed.

Others continued to sneeze and cough. Max hurried to the exit,
his heart racing as he wondered when his own symptoms
would begin.

Max seemed to leave the nightmare behind as he drove along
Rikers Island Bridge. To his left, a jumbo jet was moving down
a LaGuardia Airport runway as other aircraft waited on nearby
lanes; on his right, the sewage disposal plant was as fragrant
as always; beyond it, the Con Ed plant was venting smoke and
steam as usual. The warehouses and factories along 19th Street
were bustling, with large trucks going in and out. Traffic was
heavy all the way back to Manhattan via the Triborough Bridge.
In Harlem, people were standing in line outside the Gardner
Theater, the marquee of which read JARRET WHITESTONE on
top and DODGING THE REAPER below.

But two blocks from the 27th Precinct headquarters, a man lay
convulsing at the mouth of an alley. His ragged clothes looked
too tight, and he seemed to be wearing a shiny black tire tube
around his neck. The convulsions reminded Max of a training film
which included a fast-forwarded maggot attack on a dead rat.
Max had almost puked at the sight of the carcass swelling and
flailing as the maggots, unseen beneath the fur, ate with boiling
fury. Now his hand trembled as if palsied as he reached for the mike.

The man died less than a minute after Max finished his call.
The convulsions wound down until only the fingers twitched.
He let out a breath laden with red froth, then all of him just stopped.

More than an hour went by before the coroner’s wagon showed.
The two attendants were flushed and sweaty. The older one, who
had a runny nose, wanted to know if Max had touched the man.
Max said no and the attendant told him that was good thinking.

Max knew that he was supposed to write a report about the
dead man. Back at the 2-7, he obtained the appropriate forms,
then phoned Marie. Her voice was hoarser than before and she
said that Matt’s fever was worse.

Screw the report, thought Max. “I’ll be right home,” he
said as calmly as his racing heart allowed.

Max encountered no ambulance during his drive through
Harlem, but Queens was another matter. He had to pause
four times -- twice within a mile of his home. On Jewel he
blared his horn at a group of blank-faced little girls who
were chanting while skipping rope on the street. The children ignored him and chanted:

“I had a little bird,

and its name was Enza.

I opened up a window,

and in flew Enza!”

Max felt a chill, for he knew the rhyme’s origin. Children first
sang it in 1918, when Spanish Flu was sweeping the world with
a virulence that would kill at least two people for every person
felled by military action over World War One.

Marie! Matt! Max pressed the gas hard enough to chirp
the tires as he drove around the kids. He rushed to his driveway,
and heard Marie’s coughs even before he killed the engine. Not
bothering to lock the car, he ran to his house.

Marie was in the kitchen, waiting for a kettle. She let out another
series of coughs, then turned to Max, shaking her head.

“You’re not coming down with this, are you?”

Max said, “No,” and tapped the wooden cutting board.

“Good. I want you to get some Flu Buddy.”

“After I see Matt.”

No sound came from Matthew’s bedroom as Max approached the door.

Matthew lay under the covers of his bed; Max could not see any
motion. Max trembled as he stepped closer, and felt a wave of
relief when Matt’s head moved.

Max touched Matt’s moist, cool forehead. The fever was gone, thank
God. But the boy looked so pale.

Matt opened his eyes. “Dad?” His voice was weak and a bit hoarse.

Max smiled. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Good. How’d you like to help Mom in the kitchen?”

“I’m kinda tired, Dad.”

“Try, okay? Don’t let a little fatigue keep you in bed.”

Matt sat up slowly. He winced. This was not a typical recovery,
Max realized -- he’d seen more energy in his kids while they
were still feverish.

There were long lines at the D & W Pharmacy checkstands, the
longest Max had seen since flu season peaked five months ago.
Several people were coughing or sneezing, but no one sounded
particularly bad.

As Max waited, Flu Buddy in hand, he overheard a matronly
middle-aged woman talking about St. Barnabas High School ...
which Adam and Eileen attended. The place had so much flu,
especially among the boarders, that a quarantine was being contemplated.

Max thought he should put his Flu Buddy back and drive to
St. Barnabas at top speed. But that would be over-reacting.
Besides, this woman looked like the sort of gossip who liked to
shock her wide-eyed listeners.

A few minutes later, the woman paid for her purchases and
left, still talking feverishly. Max was about to take his turn when
the man behind him began to cough more violently than before.
Max turned in time to see the elderly gent bring up a slimy yellow wad.

Max could feel droplets on his face as the man coughed on. He
wanted to flee, rush home and wash himself ... but he was a
cop, a first responder. The man’s legs were buckling and he
looked like he was about to collapse.

As Max steeled himself, he could feel the man’s heat -- a high
fever, no doubt about it. The old furnace was running hot. The
man cradled his forehead in one hand as other people, sensing
his illness, eased themselves away. Max asked the man if he
wanted a doctor, but the guy said no.

******************************************************************************************************************************

The five o’clock news on WNBC-TV surprised Max, for he saw
no mention of the flu. There was filmed footage showing the
aftermath of two fatal car accidents on the Henry Hudson Parkway,
an apartment fire in SoHo, a condominium fire in the Upper East Side,
and a robbery at the Flushing branch of Citibank. Cross-country
stories included a hunt for two killers in Arizona and New Mexico,
a Florida resort owner who was indicted for tax fraud, and a big
drug bust at Niagara Falls.

Paula Gilbertson telephoned and asked for Marie. Eileen came
home and told Max she was glad the exams were over. A lot of
people at her school had colds or flu; in the exam room, the
nurse had set up a table with medicine and water.

Max said, “Are you feeling all right?”

“Just a little scratchy in the throat.”

Max’s heart, which had almost settled to normal, speeded again.
He said, “Find some Listerine and gargle. Go on -- don’t make
me supervise you.”

“Daddy, it’s nothing.”

“Eileen ... I’m not going to ask again.”

6 P.M.

Max had a dreadful feeling that tonight’s supper -- a cold
meal of chicken salad and coleslaw -- would be his family’s
last. The day’s sights -- the open body of Gordon Lance, the
shut-ins at Rikers, the homeless man who died at Max’s feet,
the feverish oldster at D&W -- haunted him. Looking at his
family, Max wondered if they were on the same road. Marie
still had her cough and didn’t feel up to cooking. Of the kids,
Matt was weakest -- pale, with bloodshot eyes. Eileen’s voice
was still raspy despite her earnest gargling. Adam had the sniffles and kept wiping his nose.

Eileen wanted to talk about the forthcoming trip to Disneyland,
scheduled for July 10. Lieutenant Ed Norris -- an old friend of
Max -- was probably on his way back from there right now. Max
hoped to God that Ed and his family would stay free of the germs that seemed to be stalking NYC.

After supper, Max let the kids watch TV while he helped Marie
(who wanted to prove that she was not incapacitated) clean
the kitchen. Max said, “What was Paula’s call about?”

“You know she works at Kissena Nursing Home?” Marie let out
several barks. “They’ve got a really bad flu bug. Four died today,
and almost everyone’s sick. People coughing their lungs out,
fevers up to 110, lots of swelling.”

Max swallowed hard. “That’s not the only place, hon. Let me tell you about my day.”

6:28 P.M.

Max almost felt sick as he talked about what he had seen. Finally
he said, “Funny thing is, the city’s carrying on like nothing’s
happening.”

Marie cleared her throat and said, “That’s how flu works. It
hits the crowds first -- in 1918 the Spanish Flu swept Army
barracks six months before hitting the population. My uncle
Basilio ran an orphanage until the Asian Flu killed him in
July 1957, two months before that bug went general.”
She coughed several times.

“And today,” Max said, “jails, nursing homes, schools.” He
turned his head to the sound of the TV. “We’ll want to watch our kids.”

7:38 P.M.

Matt was sleeping like the dead. In the TV room, Adam was
sneezing every few minutes while Eileen was quiet. Max had
not seen any mention of disease on CNN Headline News.

But there was little American activity to report on Headline
Sports, for only one baseball game -- Minnesota at Toronto -- had
been played. No reason was given for any of the postponements. To
fill time, CNN showed footage from European soccer matches, a bicycle race, and a marathon run.

Max shook his head. “I want you guys to get lots of sleep,”
he told Adam and Eileen. “Rest so you can fight germs. I don’t want everyone sick to start the summer.”

Adam sneezed again. He said, “Can’t always get what you want, Pop.”

“Wiseass. Good night, anyway.” He went to the master bedroom
to join Marie, whose horrible-sounding cough showed no change.

“Maybe we’d better sleep apart,” Marie said. “Just for...” She let out another volley of coughs.

“I’m staying with you, love,” Max said, holding Marie’s hands. 'Til death do us part.

9:55 P.M.

Max realized that Talk Radio 820 was not its usual self. Many
of its callers still slung their vitriol at NYC councilmen and school
trustees, and the wasteful ways of various governments, but a lot
of other calls were interrupted -- many more than usual. Often
there would be silence for ten or more seconds; then either
another caller would come on or a series of commercials would air.

Shaking his head, Max scanned the dial of his bedside radio.
Music-oriented stations seemed to be broadcasting normally,
but the Spanish talk station just below 820 was stuck on
commercials over the minute or so that Max listened. Still lower
on the dial was a Baltimore talk channel; Max tuned it in and
heard a caller named John, who said he was a cop. That was
all Max heard of him; after twenty seconds of silence another caller came on.

Max tried several more talk shows from stations in and
around NYC. All had similar degrees of interference. Max
could picture nervous radio personnel working under the supervision of grim-faced soldiers.

Beside him, Marie slept fitfully. She hadn’t coughed much
since nine, but her breaths were wheezy and she had a borderline
fever. He could hear occasional coughing and sneezing from his
kids, but nothing that sounded any worse than a cold or mild flu.
Maybe, thought Max, his family would be all right. It just was
unprecedented for all of them to be sick at this time of year.

Max closed his eyes and prayed that tomorrow would be better.

**********************************************************************

He found himself in a field of tall green corn, the ears not yet
ripe. He heard guitar music. As he walked to the source, he
smelled the aroma of baked apples and cinnamon.

On the porch of a familiar-looking cabin, the old woman who
Max had seen earlier put aside her guitar. She said, “Larry still
needs help...”

That was as far as she got before a huge crow flew in Max’s face,
blacking him out with a sulfurous smell that obliterated the apples.

******************************************************************************************************************************

Saturday, June 23

Now I’m sick, Max thought, wincing at his headache. He
looked at his alarm clock, which read 4:17 A.M. Beside him,
Marie let out six fast coughs.

Max touched her and said, “You all right?” A rather dumb question,
he thought; she felt hot.

“I’ll live.” Marie’s voice was hoarser than Max had ever heard
before. “I hope. Max, I haven’t been this sick since I was little.”

“Let me get some water.” Max left the bed and stepped to the
door, and that was when the real bad coughing began ...
from Matt’s room.

Max bounded to Matt’s room and turned on the light. Matt was
thrashing in his bed. His flesh was as red as an oven-roasted
lobster. His skin was dry and Max could feel the heat from
many inches away. Max rubbed the near-blistering shoulders
and said, then yelled Matt’s name, but Matt’s eyes were as unfocused as a newborn baby’s.

Marie rushed to Matt and yelled his name, but he didn’t respond to her either.

Adam and Eileen stood in the doorway. Neither looked
anywhere near as sick as Matthew, but their noses were streaming
and they looked scared fit to empty their bowels.

Max yelled at them. “Adam, go to the phone and call 911. Tell
them our ten-year-old has a bad cough, high fever and is
unresponsive. Eileen, run a cold bath.”

"Tepid!" Marie barked. “Not cold, not hot.” She coughed again, then shouted, “Go on!”

Adam and Eileen left. Max and Marie massaged their youngest
child and told him he’d be okay, but he didn’t seem to
understand anything other than his labored breathing.

“I can’t get through to 911,” Adam said. “Line’s busy!”

“Keep trying!” Max shouted. With Marie at his side, he carried
Matt to the bathroom. After testing the water, he undressed the
child and lowered him into the tub. Matt’s body shivered and
convulsed more furiously than before on touching the water.

“Where’s that 911!” Max bellowed.

“Still busy!” Adam shouted before letting out a volley of coughs

“Damn! We’ll have to take him to the hospital ourselves. Everybody get ready -- we’re leaving in one minute.”

Queens Hospital Center, 4:29 A.M.

Six cars were in line at the parking lot entrance, and they were
not moving. Max thumped the steering wheel. Behind him, Matt’s
breathing was agonal, the kind of agonal breathing that Max
had heard many times in victims who were near death.

“God!” Max shouted, shaking his head. He turned to his
wife, who was coughing into a handkerchief. “Marie, take the
wheel. I’m going to carry Matt in.”

“I want to go in with him!”

“Don’t argue!” Max opened the door and left his seat. He went
to the rear door as Adam, whose nose was still streaming, opened
it and handed the unconscious Matt to him. On Adam’s other
side, Eileen sneezed.

Max ran to the emergency entrance, feeling Matt’s dangling
limbs. The boy’s muscles had gone dry; what remained of his
spark tried hard to take air.

A long-box ambulance passed Max and parked in front of
the entrance. Its rear doors opened; Max saw two paramedics
and at least six patients crammed in the compartment. Another
ambulance rushed past Max and parked beside the first; it
turned out to be similarly crowded. With his legs pistoning,
aching, Max bypassed the unloading gurneys and carried Matt
through the open entrance. Dozens of people, most of them
with foul coughs and streaming noses, sat or milled in the
reception area. The doctors and nurses looked flushed, overworked;
some of them had runny noses. Max bulled his way through the
crowd until he arrived at a desk where a silver-haired woman
was taking information from a bald middle-aged man who
kept coughing into his right sleeve. Many other people stood in line.

Max bumped the man aside and shouted, “Hey, my son is very sick!”

“Wait your turn, sir!”

He can’t...”

Matt convulsed so hard Max almost lost his grasp. His neck
was puffy and his face was almost black. He had not been so
discolored or swollen just a few minutes ago! The youngster’s
limbs flailed five times as he took in a strained gasp, then let
out a rattle which faded to silence as his body went limp.

“No! Matt!” Max placed his son on the desk and shook both shoulders. “Come on, Matt! Breathe!” Tears filled his eyes.

The formalities of death seemed to take forever. Max and
his family waited for a doctor, then the chaplain. Father
Estevez said that the death toll had been doubling every
two or three hours since supper last night. After guiding
the Greeveys through a brief prayer session, he excused
himself and coughed in his sleeve.

Max led his family out of the hospital at 6:14 A.M. By that
time, there were many more people in the reception area. Max noticed that more of the staff members were ill.

No one spoke during the drive home. The radio was on
a news channel, as usual, but there was no mention of any
epidemic. The Southwest manhunt was continuing. The
Supreme Court was expected to make a decision about gay
rights later today. Another victim of the car wreck on the
Henry Hudson had died. Police and FDNY officials confirmed
that the SoHo fire had been deliberately set. And the old
Blue Oyster Cult song Don’t Fear the Reaper was back in the Top 40.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

At Rikers the lights came on 44 minutes late. Everything was
behind schedule and to those with good ears it was not hard
to figure out why. It seemed that every dormitory room had at
least half a dozen sick people. Larry saw even more evidence
of illness in the shower room, with many wads of snot on the
walls and floors. The steam didn’t seem to relieve anyone’s cough.

The coughs and sneezes had even worked into some of Larry’s
dreams ... but not the one which found him in a cornfield, with
the smell of baking in his nose and cheerful guitar music to
treat his ears. The cook and player was a very wrinkled old lady who introduced herself as Mother Abagail.

She invited Larry to step up to the porch, come to her side,
but before Larry could go forward the corn began to wither as rot tainted the air.

For there was a dark man, all red eyes and matted crow
feathers, standing in the corn. Mother Abagail stood from her chair, pointed a withered finger and yelled, “Begone!”

But the dark man did not leave. He walked to Larry, who could
not look away from his red glare. The corn crackled and
blackened around the dark man, and the last thing Larry
remembered was the mildewed feathers blowing to him as
the dark man stepped closer and closer ... Larry had awakened with such a tight chest that he thought he was sick.

The tightness came back just after 8, in the breakfast hall. Larry felt himself sweat as his skin became a suit of tingles.

For a crow had flown into the hall. It landed on a fluorescent
light housing above Larry, and glared at him with its beady, red-rimmed eyes.

The Army came to Rikers just after half past nine. Every soldier
wore a germproof suit and carried an assault rifle. They ordered
Larry and the other prisoners back to their bunks. By ten o’clock,
the George Motchan Detention Center was locked down ... along with the nine other jails on Rikers, Larry guessed.

Larry and his fellow prisoners heard trucks rumbling outside.
Clattering noises sounded from around the building. It sounded
like fast, heavy construction work. Larry was reminded of a
Bugs Bunny cartoon in which workmen built a house over the rabbit’s hole in less than a minute.

***************************************************************************************************************************

Max and his surviving family members listened to Talk Radio
820 for almost four hours without hearing any mention of an
epidemic among people. There were, however, reports of civil
defense exercises taking place at various locations across the
USA, including New York City. One such exercise was taking place at Rikers, which was off limits to visitors.

At 10:21, Eileen stood and yelled, “Daddy!” She pointed to the window.

Through a gap in the living room curtains, Max saw a sealed
white suit. No face was visible behind the tinted shield, but the suit tapped its thick glove against the glass.

The doorbell rang. It rang again.

Marie clutched her husband and cried, “Max, what’s ... happening!”

Each suit carried a Colt .45 pistol, model M1911A1 -- standard
Army issue. The shortest of the four spoke with the voice of a
woman. Her tone was polite as she gave her condolences and
requested full cooperation from Max and his family. Her bag was filled with medical equipment.

“If this is a quarantine, I’d say you’re a little late!” Max snarled.

“Mr. Greevey!” the woman barked.

“Call me Sergeant Greevey. Or sir.”

“Listen, sir, we need to examine you and your family.”

She examined the Greeveys briefly, feeling their necks, listening
to their chests and measuring their blood pressures. She gave
each family member some Oh, Henry! candy to eat, then
took more blood pressure measurements. She told Max that he
had marginal hypertension and was obese. “You need to lose weight, and soon.”

“I am losing weight -- with worry. I see sickness all
around, people are dying, we just lost our youngest...”

“We know. But with your cooperation, we can beat this. Come with us, please.”

“We’re not leaving this house!”

The largest suit reached for its Colt. The woman said, “Yes, sir ... you are.”

Max felt a squeezing pain in his chest as the suits led Marie,
Adam and Eileen -- who were weeping and clutching each
other while looking at him -- to a dark green van. “Where are you taking them!”

“That’s classified,” the largest suit said.

“I ... think I’m having a heart attack!”

The woman pulled off Max’s shirt with surprising speed and
strength, used a stethoscope to listen to his chest, then attached
monitor leads. She said, “Clear lungs, normal sinus rhythm. Can’t
rule out angina, but this looks like stress pain. We’ll know more once we get you to our little inn.”

“Sure cure -- let me be with my family. Please!”

“That’s up to you, sir. Full cooperation will bring a swift reunion.”

Damn lie, Max thought, with the teary eyes of his
family heavy on his mind. The fist in his chest squeezed harder.

The suits led Max to a separate van. Its rear compartment had
no windows. Max’s sense of direction told him that the van was
being driven west, then north. Soon Max could smell the familiar
aroma of the sewage treatment plant as the van drove over a
bridge -- the Rikers Island Bridge, he was sure. He heard other
traffic on the bridge -- large trucks, by the sound.

When Max was let out, his suspicion was confirmed -- the Army
had taken over Rikers Island. Green trucks, buses, humvees
and sedans were everywhere, all driven by spacesuits.

Max’s escorts pulled him to a huge flat-bed truck on which a
large green Sprung structure sat. Inside, they led him to a
windowless room with pea-green rubberized walls. A circular
metal-and-glass ornament, like an eye, sat on the ceiling near
the lights. The only furnishings were a plastic chair, a narrow cot, and a small television.

“This may not be a family room,” growled Max, “but I want
my wife, son and daughter here!”

The biggest suit just shook his head, then he and his partners left.

Max shuddered. He breathed hard. His heart pounded. He
walked around the room on shaky legs, running his hands
through his hair. The thought that he would never see Marie, Adam or Eileen again made him want to scream.

He had heard of prisoners going stir-crazy. Now it was
happening to him. He felt a cold wash of understanding about why so many judges didn’t like to imprison people.

Max sensed that more bad news was coming when three
suits entered. The largest of them of them wheeled in a
medical table complete with stirrups; the second guided
a large trolley laden with equipment. The third, and shortest, was the same woman who had been at Max’s house.

“Sergeant, please sit down. We have more tests to run.”

“I will not sit and I will not cooperate until
I see Marie, Adam and Eileen!”

“I’m sorry, you cannot see them.”

“At least tell me how they are.”

“That’s classified.”

“Hey! I’ve had enough stonewalling. I’m on strike until I see
my family. I’m your worst patient!”

“You are not a patient, Sergeant!” the largest suit barked. “You’re
a draftee. As you’ve noticed, there’s a new germ on the loose
and you seem to be immune. We will find out
how, like it or not.”

The woman spoke again. “You became a cop to protect the
public -- the same public that needs your help more than ever. You may be the key to stopping this disease.”

Max flicked his head. “Dear God ... all right, I’ll give what you
need.” He let out a sigh. “Part of me still wants to smack someone ... bear that in mind.”

In minutes Max was naked and helpless, with his feet in the
stirrups. The suits attached monitor leads to his torso and a
blood pressure cuff to his right arm. The woman used a needle
to withdraw blood, then inserted a catheter -- excruciating! -- even
though Max said he had no trouble pissing. The middle-size
suit carried a camcorder, and he filmed everything -- even the bull pie.

Max barked, “Hey, I want to know your names!”

The woman said, “Classified.”

“I insist ... because if Marie ever has more children I do not
want them to have the same names as you.”

“You have signs of trouble,” the woman told Max on her return
two hours after finishing the exam. “You’re overweight, somewhat
hypertensive and your glycated hemoglobin tells me you may be a borderline diabetic.”

“What about my heart? Chest still feels tight.”

“Your heart could be bad ... in five years or so unless you change
your lifestyle. For now, it’s fine, and so are your lungs. You show no sign of flu.”

“No sign in the news, either,” Max said, glancing at the television.
CNN was showing its BREAKING NEWS banner. Killer Andrew
Freeman had been shot dead in Arizona; his partner Lloyd Henreid
was in custody. “You people really have things under control, don’t you?”

“Yes ... we do.”

Max fell asleep in the middle of a crime drama called H.E.L.P.
As in his previous dream, the old guitar player was interrupted
by an onrushing crow. Max found himself in Las Vegas, herding
thieves, drug addicts and unproductive vagabonds into open
flat-bed trucks under the broiling Nevada sun. He had total
authority over these losers; they ate, drank or crapped only with
his permission. The power gave him a hard-on which got longer
as he thought of the gorgeous women he’d have at the end of his shift.

This could still be yours, Max, said the Dark Man. There’s just one job to do before you come to Vegas.

Max found himself with a gun in his hand, standing over a
cringing Larry Underwood. His anger grew along with his boner
as he looked in the punk’s eyes. Then he aimed at Underwood’s
head and squeezed the trigger. Underwood jerked, then went still with the red eye seeping blood on the other two.

Max’s reward was a lithe young woman, bejewelled but otherwise nude, who kissed with lips and pussy.

Max woke to a sticky sensation and realized that he’d had his
first wet dream since college. Damn, that woman was something!
He thought about her for many minutes. She’d be well worth
leaving Marie for.

The sound of coughing from outside made him shudder. He
remembered why he was here, remembered the sick and dead
people he’d seen, remembered his little Matthew swelling in
death throes. And he remembered the frightened eyes of
Adam, Eileen and Marie, all of them sick, as the faceless suits herded them away. He clenched his teeth until they hurt.

His boner shrank, but not all the way.

The eleven o’clock news on WNBC-TV had the first disease
theme. Ten children in Forest Hills had been hospitalized with
E. coli infection, most likely contracted from a church supper at
St. Stephen United Methodist Church. The anthrax outbreak
which had been reported in Texas six days ago was winding
down with no new cases from the epicenter in Arnette; travel
restrictions would be lifted soon. In Maine, the hunt was on
for a rabid dog with many people still haunted by a decade-old
tragedy at Castle Rock. And a flu epidemic seemed to be in its
early stages with possibly dangerous consequences for people
with suppressed immune systems or chronic disorders; a doctor
(who looked nervous to Max’s trained eye) said that shots
would be available by Monday.

Sure, Max thought, and crows talk.

But maybe there was a crow who could talk, and turn
into a man of great power. The thought chilled Max’s
shoulders, but warmed his groin.

******************************************************************************************************************************

5:59 AM Sunday, June 24

Max awoke from his latest trip to Vegas. There, he had wrestled
a skel to a crosstree and nailed the loser’s hands to the bar,
high above the guy’s lice-ridden hair. He had taken grim pleasure
in executing the Dark Man’s sentence ... then, there was the Dark Man’s harem.

And another wet dream.

Which was why Max blushed when the woman doctor entered.
For several seconds all he could do was hope that she would not
order him to undress ... until he noticed that she was not wearing her suit!

She smiled and said, “Good news, Sergeant Greevey.”

“Let me guess. I’m healthy.”

“Hmm ... anyway, you’re not infectious. You don’t have this
germ, and neither does O.J.”

“Is this O.J. a boy or a girl?”

“You’ll love her.” The woman motioned to the door.

A man entered. In his right hand was a tiny cage in which a
brown and white guinea pig milled as if anxious to get out.

“I know how she feels,” Max said. “That cage is way too
small -- she needs a whole square foot just for sleeping. And
there’s no companion, nothing for her to play on. I know -- I
gave Eileen a pair of guinea pigs for her fifth birthday and
they lived til a month after she turned 12.” Max drew a deep
breath, then shouted, “I want to see her. I want to be with what’s left of my family!”

“That can’t happen, not yet. But you are getting company.”

Someone knocked on the door. The woman said, “Enter.”
Two men brought in a cot similar to the one Max was on. Two
other men entered behind them.

Max recognized the younger man at once -- Larry Underwood!

Good thing looks don’t kill, Larry thought as the detective glared at him.

Greevey looked very pissed off. He barked at the woman
(Dr. Noelle Body to Larry’s eyes), “Before you say anything, we already know each other!”

“Well ... don’t slash on my watch.”

“Funny lady,” Larry said. “What about the one who gave birth to me? I want to call her!”

“We’ve told you and told you, not at this time.”

“Shit. You people!”

“Don’t annoy ‘em,” Greevey said. “If they won’t let me see my wife and kids, what’s the point?”

“No point,” Larry replied, “just needles.”

“Procedure. Get used to it.”

After Noelle Body and her henchmen finished their procedures,
they left. Larry went to the television and tuned in WNBC. After
several minutes of covering an attempted murder at Raimondo’s
Ristorante, a bus/truck crash on the Triborough Bridge, and
the postponement of The Devils of Loudun at the
Metropolitan Opera, WNBC got around to the flu outbreak.
Mayor Dinkins said that there were local pockets of flu activity
in New York City and a small number of people had died.

“Small number my ass,” Larry said. “They’re dying like flies on
this island. Prisoners, guards, they’re either sick or they know
people who are. And it’s getting so they’re not caring how many guns the Army has.”

“I can believe that,” Greevey said. “I’ve talked to people who
were at the Attica riot in ‘71. Suicidal riot ... not out of the question at all.”

The morning felt unreal. As far as Max could tell, every TV
channel was on its regular schedule ... although he wasn’t a
television expert. It was Underwood who noticed something
odd when he tuned in Five Boroughs Bandstand on
Channel 65 just after 10 AM. He had an explanation for the
awful-sounding band of three musicians.

“There are six members in that group,” Underwood said, “and
they’re so dedicated I can’t imagine what illness would make any of them miss a show.”

“I’ll bet you can’t,” Max growled. He fought an urge to throttle Underwood.

At that moment the door opened and a bullish, red-haired man
entered the room. Max recognized him immediately.

“Wayne McCallany, you son of a gun!” Max said.

“Lieutenant Wayne.”

“Huh! Never figured you for officer material.”

“I mellowed.” He glanced at Underwood. “Your roomie ... is he trustworthy?”

“Sure. I arrested him.”

Underwood said, “Time like this, you shouldn’t be worried about me.”

The lieutenant let out a harsh laugh. “You’re right about that.”

Max rubbed sweaty palms. “Do you know where my family is?”

“I’m not supposed to say this, but ... North Infirmary Command.”

“How are they?”

McCallany lowered his head. “Your wife is very ill. Your kids
seem to be at their own plateaus -- Adam is flu-like, Eileen
looks like she just has a cold.

“Damn it, I want to see them!”

“Chain of command says no, and it’s strong. But from the look of things, this chain will corrode.”

Max said, “I need your pen and pad.”

“Could get in trouble for smuggling ... why not.” He handed
the items to Max, and that was when his radio activated. He
pulled out the instrument, spoke an acknowledgement, then
looked at the scribbling Max and said, “Short ‘n sweet, I have to go.”

Max scribbled for a few more seconds, then gave the pen and paper back to Wayne. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Wayne pocketed his items and marched out.

Underwood said, “I take it you two go way back.”

“Yeah ... Wayne was a hothead, the nearest thing to a
Dirty Harry my precinct had. One day this skel robbed a
bodega, cut a teenage clerk, and Wayne whaled the shit out
of him. Damn near got a criminal conviction, but he was cleared
and sent to Staten. After a few years he quit and joined the Army.
Did a stint in Central America and wrote me about it.” Max
lowered his head so he could show more of his eye whites. “You
think you had it bad, getting busted by me and my partner. Wait’ll
you visit a Third World police state. A lot of the cops there are
uneducated thugs who’d pistol-whip you for sport. And under
their system they’re kings, able to kick ass when they want. You’d
think they’d be happy, right? Wrong. Everybody hates them and they know it.”

Larry said, “Lots of people in New York hate the cops.”

“Don’t I know. But it’s not as bad as what Wayne saw. If it were,
my partner -- God bless him -- and I wouldn’t have been able
to find any suspects in the school shooting of a few days ago. No witness would...”

A series of hoarse yells and popping, crackling noises sounded
from outside. “Hit the floor!“ Max barked, rolling off the cot.
“Damn it, Underwood. Either Independence Day is early or your riot is on time.”

Max almost jumped as something clanged the metal frame of
his cot. He noticed a hole in the wall nearby. Two more holes
appeared in quick succession. More pops sounded, much louder and closer. People screamed.

Wayne crawled inside. Blood streamed down his left leg. He grimaced, scuttling to the medicine cabinet.

“Damn, Wayne, this place isn’t bulletproof,” Max said, crawling to his friend.

Larry said, “Quick, show us where there’s peace and quiet.”

The outside noises rose to rapid staccato chatter, and many
new holes appeared in the wall. Several bullets struck the
medicine cabinet, punching holes in its sliding door without
touching the lock. Others chipped the television’s casing, but
its picture -- an aerial shot of a house-eating sinkhole with the caption MAITLAND, FL -- was unaffected.

The gunfire stopped abruptly. Wayne pulled out his Colt handgun and aimed it at the lock.

Max reached for the gun and pulled it away. “I wouldn’t, unless you want ‘em to spray this place again.”

“Got to stop the bleeding,” Wayne said through his grimace.

“Larry, get your pillow slip and bedsheet.”

Larry scuttled to his cot, quick yet quiet. He pulled off the linens and carried them to the other two.

Max inspected Wayne’s leg and found the wound. There didn’t
seem to be an exit, which meant that the bullet had probably hit
and damaged the femur. That would be a bad deal without
treatment. He kept the leg raised. He told Larry to bundle the slip
and use it to put pressure on the wound. Wayne squeezed his eyes
and growled to stifle a scream. Quickly Max folded the sheet and
tied it around Wayne’s leg as a bandage. Blood soaked the
improvised dressing, but the bleeding no longer looked rapid.

“Next stop, North Infirmary Command,” Max said, lifting Wayne
by his left shoulder. Larry helped on the right. The three went
to the door. Larry reached for the knob with a trembling hand. He
pulled the door open slowly, keeping himself behind it.

Wayne pulled out his reflective sunglasses and handed them
to Larry, whose eyes looked blank for a moment. Then he nodded,
went to his knees and positioned the glasses on the door sill.
Exposing as little of himself as possible, he peered at the reflected
images. He shuddered and gagged at what he saw.

"Bodies," Larry whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Lots, and no one's moving."

"We have to,” Max said. “Turn those glasses the other way.”

More crackles sounded, but no standing person was visible.

“Let’s go to my car,” Wayne said. “To the left.”

Six bodies, all in orange prison jumpsuits, lay near Wayne’s
car -- a plain green Ford LTD sedan with many holes in the
fenders and glass. The left front tire was flat. The crackling
noises seemed to be getting closer, and were originating from
around a corner of the nearby George Motchan Detention Center.

“Never mind the tire,” Max said. “All this car has to do is get us
to the infirmary. I’ll drive.”

As Max helped Wayne to the passenger side, a crow landed
on a nearby streetlight. Max felt a warmth in his groin, felt his
meat grow. His mind’s eye saw the sparkling lights of Las Vegas,
saw crucified addicts and thieves who would never disrupt public
order again. And saw the women who were ready to serve him.

His hard-on lengthened as he grabbed Wayne’s gun and aimed
it at Larry, whose eyes widened. Wayne’s breathing was labored
and he was too weak to protest. Max began to squeeze the trigger.

Underwood's eyes were as wide as Marie's had been when the suits
pulled her away from Max. Yanked a sick, terrified woman away
from her family.

“No!” He snapped away from Larry and aimed at the crow, who
leaped from the light with a hoarse caw. Max sighted
the gun as he had been trained for a moving target, and fired.

Feathers erupted. The crow fell, uttering the loudest, most
horrible sounds Max had heard from any animal, noises so
terrible that millions of bugs tingled Max’s body as his sphincter
loosened. The bird tumbled and cartwheeled, wings flailing,
feathers shedding. It regained control less than a foot above
the ground. Just before it disappeared behind a building, its
beady eye glared at Max, as if to mark him. And it did; Max
soiled himself for the first time since a stomach bug surprised him in Grade 3.

“Jesus, Max,” Wayne wheezed. “You crazy?”

“Was crazy,” Larry said.

The men could hear vehicles getting closer. “APCs,” Wayne said. “Let’s get out...”

Wayne coughed. Max noticed that he was feverish.

The three were in Wayne’s car and Max was cranking the starter
when the first APC appeared from beyond a building. Smoke
billowed from its exhaust pipe as it gunned to the car.

“Everybody down!” Max cried as he started the engine. He threw
the car in gear and floored the gas. The car leaped forward, its bad
wheel grumbling. The suited guy behind the APC’s top-mounted
machine gun fired his weapon. Clanging noises sounded from
behind the passenger compartment until Max drove around a corner and beyond the line of sight.

“Safe!” Larry shouted.

“Don’t bet on it,” Max said. Gunfire seemed to be coming from
everywhere. Orange-clad people were running every which way
and Max had to dodge them. Where was Hazen Street ... there!
Max turned right, headed north. To his left, he saw the
brick-orange structures of the James A. Thomas Center ... and
beyond it, the similar-looking North Infirmary Command.

The gate to the infirmary’s parking lot looked sturdy. Max
put the car in reverse and used the rear end to crash through.
The impact crumpled the rear deck and unlatched the trunk
lid, which rose to block the view. Max put the car in Drive and
headed forward, driving over several big cracks in the pavement.
The nearest wall of the infirmary also had a network of cracks.

“I don’t see any guards,” Larry said.

“Must’ve bugged,” Wayne said between coughs. “These cracks ...
weren’t there before.”

“Cracks be damned, I’m going to find my family,” Max said,
stopping at the entrance.

Wayne’s teeth chattered as Max and Larry helped him out of
the car. “S-so cold,” Wayne said.

“You’re toasty to me,” Max said.

“Yeah ... global warming’s an easy sell right now,” Larry added.

As the three approached the entrance, they could hear coughing
and moaning from inside. The smell, fit to make everyone
gag, hit them as they climbed the stairs.

One door was ajar, held open by a swollen black body. Its
blond hair looked natural, and its bulging, bloodshot,
sightless-looking eyes had blue irises. Pink froth flowed from
its mouth as sulfur-colored mucus dribbled from the nostrils.
At least a dozen flies crawled over the taut skin, oozing fluids,
and motionless eyes. Max did not want to go near the corpse;
he tried the other door ... which wouldn’t budge. He thought
of taking Wayne to the opposite doorway, but the sound of
approaching APCs made him change his mind. They had to get inside, fast.

As Max was about to push the half-open door, the corpse’s
eyes rolled up and pierced him.

Max let out a yell and Larry screamed as the body heaved and
rattled. The flies rose in a shimmering, buzzing cloud. One of
them flew in Max’s mouth and tickled his gums; he spat it out,
spat again. The person convulsed a few more times, let out
another rattle, then became still and silent.

With the APCs getting closer, Max stepped over the body and
led the other two in. The smell! A sewer from a morgue might
not be as bad. Max’s stomach wanted to turn over, and his
chest felt tight; it was as if this blend of death and excrement
had displaced half of the oxygen.

The floor was littered with bodies, all swollen, most still. A few
labored for air, their breaths rattling like wind through parched corn.

“Marie! Adam! Eileen!” Max yelled.

“I’d keep clam if I were you,” Larry whispered. He pointed to the nearest body.

Max followed the finger ... and saw blood-rimmed holes on the torso.

“Guys, we’re going upstairs,” Max said softly. “I know where
there’s a treatment room.”

Several bodies littered the stairwell. The only one with evidence
of life was a young man, thin except for his swollen neck and
crotch, who lay on the first landing, naked and shivering in his
own pool. His tattoos marked him as a member of the Crips. Not
a savory character, thought Max, but no one deserved to die
like this. He thought of taking off his jumpsuit to cover the
boy, or undressing a nearby corpse for the same purpose. But
time was running short for Wayne, there was no telling when
those APC troops would charge in to shoot anything that moved ...
God, what have we come to! “We’ll be back quick as we can,” he told the boy. “Just hang tough.”

Wayne coughed again, bringing up gobs of phlegm. Max and
Larry ushered him up the stairs and through the doors to the second floor.

They almost slipped in the pool that surrounded a headless
body. The walls near the corpse had holes, craters and
constellations of gore. Another body was missing an arm and
had a gleaming pile of what looked like very thick pasta oozing from its torso.

Larry bent forward and let his stomach turn. He wiped his
mouth and said, “Dear God ... don’t think I’ll ever eat spaghetti again.”

“There’s our destination,” Max said, pointing to an open door and the darkness behind it.

A crashing sound came from downstairs, quickly followed by
fast footfalls up the stairwell. Max pulled Wayne into the room.
Larry took up the rear and closed the door, putting the room
in total darkness. Max was in no hurry to turn on a light, for
the footfalls had reached the floor.

Wayne let out several graveyard coughs, low and rough. Two
or three feet away, someone sneezed, and that someone
sounded like Eileen! Max turned to the source and hissed, “Shhh.”

Something struck the door like an explosion. Struck again,
opening a sliver of light as the jamb splintered. One more kick would...

With an ear-filling rumble, the room shook and the light
beyond the door went out. Unseen bottles tinkled and shattered.
The shaking lasted many long seconds. After it stopped, there
were clatters, knocks and groans from the building. The unseen
girl let out another series of sneezes, quite audible even
though she seemed to be doing her best to stifle them.

Max hardly dared to breathe, and he couldn’t hear Larry. He
noticed a short, high sliver of faint gray light; then the sliver
extended to floor level, and Max understood that someone --
Larry, he hoped -- had been blocking the line of sight.

“You there, Larry?” Max whispered.

Larry’s reply was also a whisper. “Yeah ... and I don’t hear
anything outside. Nothing human, anyway.”

The building continued to creak and crack. There was a sharp
report from below, like a stone-shattering hammer blow.
Max sensed that the building could collapse.

He turned his attention to the unseen girl. “Eileen?” he said
as loud as he dared.

“Daddy!”

Max heard something slide, like a cabinet door.

“Just whisper, Eileen.”

“Daddy, where are you?”

“Here.” Max extended his hands to the sound of her voice
until he found her fingers, her hands. She pressed herself
to him, embraced him. He could feel her tears. She was
feverish, but not as hot as Wayne.

A flickering yellow light came on -- from Wayne’s Zippo.
Wayne looked hollow-eyed and wasted, although Max thought
that was just a trick of the light. Eileen’s eyes were watery,
but good enough to recognize the room’s youngest man.

“Larry Underwood. Daddy, you said...”

“I have the right to change my mind, okay? Now where are Mom and Adam?”

“I ... haven’t seen them.”

“Okay, I’ll look.”

“Please, let me look with you.”

Max thought for a moment. “We stay together. Do everything I tell you.”

The hall was empty except for corpses and fresh-fallen debris.
The only light source was a brilliant line under the fire doors in
the middle of the hall, about thirty feet from the treatment room.
Max told Larry to look after Wayne. Then father and daughter
held each other as they padded to the doors and their strange, beckoning light.

The light was too blue and steady for a fire, and it didn’t look
incandescent or fluorescent. Max and Eileen stalked closer.
When they were six feet from the doors, Max told Eileen to
move aside and stop -- he didn't want her in the sights of
any gunners who might be waiting on the other side. Max
walked to the doors, felt them, and listened. All he could hear
was a fast pulsating roar, borne of his own racing heart. He
watched for shadows. After a long minute or two, he pulled the right-hand door open...

And gaped at the enormous crater from which dust and smoke
rose in lazy plumes. For one horrible second, Max felt compelled
to jump forward. Instead, he stumbled back, grabbed Eileen,
and pulled her away. He realized that most of the parking lot
was gone, along with all of the infirmary beyond the fire doors.
He clutched Eileen to his chest. With tearful horror, he sensed
that he would never see Marie or Adam again.

Max and Eileen returned to the treatment room, where Wayne
looked no better despite Larry’s efforts. “Let’s get out of here,”
Max said. He pulled a sheet off the medical table.

With gun in hand, he led the way downstairs. On the landing,
he paused to cover the Crips boy, who seemed to be comatose.
Outside, Wayne’s car had no additional damage, but was near
the edge of the crater. About thirty feet away, an empty-looking APC was sitting on the edge.

“Jesus,” Larry said. “What place is this, Maitland?”

Several people were standing nearby, trying to peer through
the cloud of dust. A breeze cleared enough dust for Max to
read TRINITROTOLUENE on some of the crates in the hole.
His first reaction was to usher Eileen quickly and quietly into the car.

Larry also reacted: “Fuck me!”

A tattooed man pointed at the nearest stencil and said, “What’s
that, a fancy word for treasure?”

“Sure, the kind that could send us to Tranquility,” Larry replied,
helping Wayne to the car as fast as he could.

A rumbling from the sinkhole’s edge startled Max. As he tried
to start Wayne’s car, the ground under the APC sagged and
collapsed. The APC disappeared into the hole. A second later
there was a flash, followed by a fiery plume.

“No!” Larry yelled.

Max cranked the starter and worked the gas pedal, but the
engine showed no life. Close by, the fire was growing. Max
shuddered and sweated as he kept the starter going, to no avail.
The windows became foggy, but he could still see the flickering orange light of the flames.

“We need another car!” Larry shouted, opening his door. “There!”
He pointed to an old Chevrolet Nova. Two men in prisoner
jumpsuits were already at it. One of them opened the driver’s
door and as Larry ran to the car a blue-white plume billowed from its exhaust.

“Wait for us!” Larry yelled.

Max and Eileen pulled Wayne out. Larry was at the Nova’s front
end, begging the driver to wait. The car’s passenger screamed,
“Hurry, ya slugs!”

Max glanced back at the remains of the infirmary. He felt a
strong urge to rush back in search of Marie and Adam, but he
sensed -- knew -- that if he didn’t get away with all
possible speed, he and the people around him would die. He
barked at Eileen, "Run to the car! Go, go, go!" Eileen ran,
looking back at Max -- sick at heart -- as he pulled Wayne
to the grumbling car.

Marie, Adam, I’m sorry. God forgive me.

Sharp crackles sounded from the hole. God help us all!
Max’s heart raced faster than ever and even Wayne found the
strength to run. They piled into the Nova’s rear, already
occupied by Larry and Eileen, as more ammunition exploded
in the hole, louder than before. Even before they closed the
doors, the driver gunned the engine and the car leaped forward.

The sinkhole had cut the exit. The driver backed his car through
shrubbery and a fence, knocking off the car’s exhaust pipe.
Even the car’s unmuffled roar couldn’t drown the explosions.
When the car reached Hazen Street, its driver snap-shifted
and popped the clutch. The car roared, squealed and smoked as it sped south.

The explosions had interrupted the riot, but numerous bodies
lay in and around the street. At first the driver tried to avoid
them, but as he approached the bridge the pavement was
practically covered. KWOMP! The car bucked and
rocked as it drove over body after body. Eileen moaned and
pressed her face to Max’s side. Larry looked sickly pale and
had his hands over his mouth. Wayne was sweaty and ashen.
Max said, “Jesus, God have mercy.”

And then they were past the bodies, on the bridge, driving
over the East River. They reached the height of the span...

And saw an Army checkpoint at the Queens end.

Tingles of fear played over Max’s skin as a crow landed on
an Army truck. Four soldiers aimed their rifles at the car as
it drove closer. Two others carried a bazooka. Max pushed Eileen
down and covered her with his body, aware that the troops had
enough firepower to kill them all.

A white-hot flash seared the car, followed by a clap of agony
which snuffed Max’s hearing. The car spun through a searing,
pain-filled void. Max kept the shuddering Eileen in his clutch
as he felt something strike the car very hard. The spinning and
shaking went on, as if Max was taking a long trip to the afterlife.

He dared to raise his head, and saw an enormous orange-black
column rising from a base of fire. The smoke had a cauliflower
look, like the plume from a volcano. Even from over half a mile,
its heat was intense. Topping it was an enormous black cloud,
like a toadstool cap. Daylight faded as the cap spread over the sky and covered the sun.

The East River was roiling. Its waters were flowing over the
Con Ed plant, which was itself fiery. On the other side of the
bridge, aircraft at LaGuardia were drifting and spinning like
toys. The Queens side was covered with water in which cars,
trucks -- and people -- bobbed and bumped each other. The
water pulled back, carrying everything as the river took its booty.

Max looked back at Rikers, but could not see the island.
Fire and smoke continued to rise until steam erupted in
clean blooms. Much of the island had been made of landfill,
Max remembered; now the river was reclaiming its territory.

He looked for the crow, but saw no sign of it. Several soldiers
lay motionless near their windowless trucks.

Eileen was alive, with teary eyes and streaming nose. Larry
rose and looked at the steam, then at Max. Wayne was
breathing, but seemed to be unconscious -- like the driver, who
was bleeding from his nose and from the spot where his right ear had been.

The driver’s buddy lay curled and motionless on the floor in
front of his seat. His body had been impaled by a patterned
metal rod -- a re-bar. The bar’s length behind the body was
smeared with gore. It had gone through the base of the seat,
from the rear. Its gory length extended from between Larry’s
thighs. Larry’s eyes widened as he noticed it. So did Eileen's.

Larry shuddered. For many seconds he was afraid to move.
Finally he rose and looked at his crotch, which was not bloody.
He eyed the bar again, then looked at the trunk lid.

Max could think of only one reason why the whole bar was
bloody. With a trembling hand he reached for the keys and
pulled them out of the ignition switch. He left the car and
went to the trunk. Eileen grabbed his right arm.

He could barely hear what she was saying -- “Daddy, where
are you going!”

“Get back in the car!”

“I’m scared!”

"And I’m a cop and I have to check the trunk. There are three
unconscious men in the car -- help Larry look after them.”

Reluctantly, with eyes that kept shifting back to Max, Eileen
went inside. She watched through the hollow frame of the
rear window as Max tried to unlock the trunk. The key danced
a tattoo around the lock for several seconds before he got
it in. He unlatched the lid and pulled it open.

The movement inside startled him, almost made him jump.

The eyes were wide and glaring, beast’s eyes set in a face which
Max recognized at once -- Edwin Konig! He was curled, and
the bar had gone through his right chest, pinning him. Bloody
froth billowed from his mouth.

Max remembered the beating he had taken from Konig eight
days ago. Under better circumstances, like a dark alley with
no witnesses, he would have been sorely tempted to pay Konig
back. But this wasn’t the time for blows, not when the guy was
hurt, helpless -- and sick. Max noticed the swelling on Konig’s
neck -- not large, but starting to darken.

He would have to get help -- for Konig, for the driver and his
pal whose names he didn’t know, for Wayne, and for Eileen.
Communications might be down, the streets impassable and
the hospitals overcrowded, but he was a cop, one of
New York’s Finest, and he had to do his best.

Konig was stuck fast, and Max knew that cutting tools would
be needed to free him. Max said, “Just hang in there, Edwin.
Help is coming.” He leaned to Larry. “You know where Astoria Hospital is?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll drive. Go to the trunk and keep Edwin company, but
don’t touch him.” Max looked at the lower part of Hazen Street,
which was still under water along with the land around it. “We’ll
have to chance it with that flood. If water gets in the trunk, or
Edwin has more trouble you give a signal. My hearing’s not too
good, so yell and wave.” He placed a hand on his daughter’s
shoulder. “Eileen, watch for Larry’s signal. If he signals, you shake me. Clear?”

Eileen nodded. Max eased the unconscious driver to the
passenger seat. Just as he was about to start the engine, flashing
red lights appeared ahead as FDNY trucks crossed the intersection
of 19th Street and drove toward them.

The cavalry’s still working, Max thought. He jumped
from the car and waved at the oncoming trucks. The lead truck
stopped and its driver, whose nose was runny, leaned out of the window.

“We got a lot of hurt people here!” Max shouted, pointing to the
unconscious soldiers on the road. “And two men're pinned in that
car, you’re gonna have to cut a re-bar.”

The FDNY driver stepped out, a tad unsteady, and walked to
the car. He looked at the passenger, then Konig.

“We can cut that bar,” the fireman said, “but lots of luck getting
any of your friends treated. Every ambulance is busy, the hospitals
are black holes. This flu is really running a number on us.” He
let out a series of sneezes, and rubbed his forehead. “Me, I’m
gonna die with my boots on.”

The FDNY people freed the impaled men in short order, although
each man still had part of the bar in his body. The driver looked
at Max and said, ”Your suit is to die for, pal. It’d look real good
in the Tombs.”

Max realized that he was wearing his Rikers jumpsuit -- along
with everyone else in his party, except Wayne. The thought of
being confined in the Tombs and separated from Eileen chilled him.

A brilliant flash of lightning startled Max. Tarry rain began to
spatter. That Rikers fire was making its own weather, a kind of
weather which Max did not want to be under. He and Larry loaded
two unconscious soldiers in the car (the others were dead).
Then Max sat on the driver’s seat and started the engine.

He guided the car through flood waters and past several bodies,
holding the wheel so tightly that his hands ached. The
blast-induced roar in his ears began to subside; soon he could hear Konig’s cries.

The traffic became heavier as he approached Astoria General
Hospital. The fireman hadn’t lied; people were milling around
the entrance. Several police cars were parked nearby, and the
cops, together with security people, did not seem to be letting anyone in the building.

People were arguing with the uniformed men and it looked as if
a riot would begin at any time. Part of Max wanted to stand with
his fellow cops, but he didn’t know any of these guys and that
jumpsuit would make him look like an escaped prisoner.

Eileen touched his shoulder. “Daddy ... we could try Dr. Park.”

Max said, "That may not be a bad idea." He patted Eileen's head.
"Good thinking, in fact.”

Joe Park was a veterinarian who lived and worked six blocks
from Max’s home. Along the way, Max passed two clinics which
had dozens of people outside. A third clinic was on fire, and
people were looting nearby stores, breaking into cars. Max
thought of jumping from his seat to bust some of these looters,
but he had a car full of people who needed help.

The doorway to Park’s office was clear. Max and Eileen helped
Wayne (who was conscious, but weak) while Larry carried the
car’s original driver. They entered the reception area ... and gaped.

The place was crowded with dogs ... all kinds, from Chihuahuas
and toy terriers to wolfhounds and a Saint Bernard. Every dog was
sick (like most of the people with them), and many were foaming.
The Saint Bernard was slobbering copious amounts of froth.

Dr. Park said that there was not much he could do. He had his
hands full; over the past few days, it seemed that every
neighbourhood dog and guinea pig had become sick. Even
after Max and Larry carried Konig in, re-bar and all, Park
insisted that his department was animal care.

“Damn it, Doctor, at least do something to make these men
more comfortable,” Max said.

Park shook his head. “The medications I have are formulated
for animals, not humans. If I give anything to your guys...”

“You’re worried about trouble? It’s already here -- look
at the people around you!”

Before Park could reply, he let out a series of croupy coughs.

“Right now, a mirror will do,” Max said, feeling a cold sweat
as he watched the sudden onset of Park’s illness. Park rubbed
his forehead and let out more coughs.

“Maybe ... I have something,” Park said.

Minutes later, with Wayne’s wound properly bandaged, Konig
asleep, and the others as stable as could be, Max decided that
it was time to head for home. With the help of Eileen and Larry,
he walked Wayne to the car. They were halfway there when a
police car parked behind the Nova. The cop glared at Max and his party.

Bad trouble, Max thought as the cop spoke frantically to
his radio mike. He told Eileen and Larry to ease Wayne down, then
approached the cruiser with his hands spread wide.

“I’m Sergeant Max Greevey of the 2-7.”

“I don’t believe you,” the cop replied, gun in hand as he left the
car. "Everyone, down on the ground! Hands behind your head.”

Eileen said, “He’s telling the truth, he’s my...”

“Shut up and get down!”

Cop or no cop, Max wanted to smack this guy for the way he yelled
at Eileen. Instead, he lowered himself and told the others to obey
the cop’s orders. Then he asked the cop to call Captain Deakins at the 27th Precinct.

The cop opened the right rear door of his cruiser and said, “Axel, come.”

A big Alsatian leaped from the car. Snot the color of rancid cream
oozed from its nostrils, and its breathing sounded labored, but the
beast still looked strong.

“Axel, guard these people. If they robbed that vet, I’ll let you eat ‘em.”

The dog growled when Max looked at its eyes. Ropy saliva dangled
from between its teeth like mobile stalactites. Close by, Eileen
shuddered. Max felt his heart race as he wondered if her fear would
set the dog to attack.

The cop’s face looked chalky when he returned a few minutes
later. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. Your captain is out, but I spoke to a
Detective Profaci, and I saw the guys you brought in.”

“I’d better talk to Profaci myself.”

Max re-entered the office. The Saint Bernard looked dead. A small
terrier was also still. He went to the receptionist’s phone and said,
"Tony, it's Max."

“Max, where have you been? It’s hell on Earth!” Profaci shouted.
“Rikers blew up, a tidal wave’s flooded East Harlem, there’s
looting everywhere and we’re dropping like bugs from this flu.”

“It’s a long story. I’ve got to go home and change...”

“And then can you come? Our manpower’s plummeting.”

“My daughter may have flu, and a friend is worse. Hospitals are
jammed -- I’m all they’ve got.”

“What about Marie?”

“God, Tony!” Max fought to keep from collapsing in tears. “The
Army packed us off to Rikers. Eileen and I were the only ones who got out.”

“I’m sor...” Static crackled for a second, then there was silence.

“Tony, are you there? Talk to me!”

The line was dead.

Withered flowers greeted Max when he arrived home with Eileen,
Larry and Wayne a few minutes before noon. He had to break in.
After getting Wayne settled in the guest room, and telling Larry to
look at Adam’s clothes, he went to his shower stall. He spent
many minutes cleaning himself, weeping as he did so, sending
the remaining heat down the drain. Once he was clean and
wearing casual clothes, he felt a little better ... but his losses --
Matt, Marie, and Adam -- haunted him.

The power was off, but Max had a camp stove and a battery-powered
TV-radio unit, which was tuned to WNBC-TV. He cooked soup
and watched the news with Eileen and Larry beside him.

The picture alternated between live of flood damage, car-choked
streets and bridges, looted stores, and the fire on Rikers Island.
The news anchorman said that the number of casualties remained
unknown and FDNY was having difficulty finding enough people
to man a fire boat (trucks could not get on the island because part
of the bridge was gone). Bus and subway service were temporarily
suspended.

The anchor had a red nose and his female partner coughed a few
times. Both looked pale and kept shifting their eyes; Max guessed
that the Army or some other authority was still monitoring the
newscast. He exchanged looks with Larry, who seemed nervous.

“My mother wasn’t that well when you busted me,” Larry said. “I
should see if she’s okay. Do you have a bike I could borrow?”

“Adam ... has.” Max rubbed his chin. “Go ahead -- it’s in the
garage,” he added, pointing to a door.

“Thanks.” Larry extended his right hand. “You’re a good guy, Max.”

****************************************************************************************************************

With the power and telephone out, Max realized that he would
need more emergency supplies -- batteries, fuel, bottled water,
non-perishable food. Eileen was nervous about staying home
while Max went out, but he persuaded her to stay in the house,
saying, "A person as sick and hurt as Wayne should not be alone."

Eileen said, "First stranger I babysit turns out to be older than me."

"World's coming to this," Max replied.

He went to the G&L Hardware Store on Yellowstone Boulevard
near the Long Island Railroad. The place was run by Desmond
Hornepayne, who’d been a tough sarge during Max’s rookie
days. As Max expected, there was an Exeter Security Service
car parked nearby, and a beefy white-haired uniformed man
standing beside the entrance -- Corey Hornepayne, Desmond’s
younger brother, also an ex-cop.

The store was crowded. About half of the people showed signs
of illness, mostly cold-like symptoms. A few were obviously sick.
Everyone, it seemed, wanted the same things as Max. At the till,
Desmond said that Max had come just in time; the store was
running low on many items and new deliveries were running late.
Part of Max wanted to chat longer, but he knew that two sick people were waiting for him.

Wayne was worse when Max returned. By dark, his temperature
was up to 105 and he was delirious. Max stayed with him almost
until midnight, when his fever broke.

Max dreamed of corn, of roasted chicken and apple pie, and
of the old woman who cooked them. “You come to me when it’s time, Max.”

The rattle woke him to darkness, with just a gray hint of dawn
in the east, silhouetted by black houses in which rectangles
of yellow candle light were visible here and there. Max fumbled
for his flashlight, for one horrible moment thinking that the rattle
had come from Eileen. Then he heard Eileen sneeze and
understood that Wayne was in distress.

He rushed to the guest room, which was silent when he
arrived. His light found shiny, swollen flesh, bulging eyes, and
clots of sulfur-and-maroon phlegm.

You were better! Max thought, forcing himself to
Wayne’s side. Just four hours ago, Wayne had beaten back
his illness. He couldn’t be dead ... but he was.

Max closed his friend’s eyes and covered him with a blanket.
Nearby, Eileen sneezed again. She was weeping. Max hoped
and prayed that she had inherited enough of his immunity.

Father and daughter attended 7:00 AM Mass at the Holy
Family Roman Catholic Church on Monday, June 25. The
church was as crowded as Max had ever seen, with most
pew spaces occupied. More than half of the parishoners
showed some sign of illness. Monsignor Olivotto read the
names of ten parishoners who had died yesterday. From what
a few fellow churchgoers told Max, the city’s economy was
winding down rapidly, the NYPD had shut down, and many soldiers had deserted.

After the service, news on the radio confirmed that the city was
lawless. The top rumor had a thermonuclear bomb behind the
destruction of Rikers Island, although Army spokesmen denied
this. Riots and fires raged in many areas, but the middle-class
parts of Queens were quiet.

That night, the only noise in the house came from Eileen’s
coughing and sneezing. Her illness still seemed like a nasty
cold and she was not losing strength. The awareness that she
was fighting well was not enough to prevent Max from feeling anxious
as he heard her body’s desperate effort to expel the germs.

On the 26th, Holy Family was even more crowded; many of the
attendees had to stand. The Monsignor explained that several
churches in the Diocese of Brooklyn (which, as Max knew, also
covered Queens) were closed because their priests were
incapacitated. More than 300 of the 428 diocesan priests had
taken ill, the Monsignor said; with teary eyes he read the names
of 29 priests who were known to have passed away. An elderly
man lost consciousness several minutes before Mass ended; his
family let the Monsignor administer last rites.

The 27th saw three-quarters as big a turnout, but most of the
faces were unfamiliar and the coughing was so bad that the
Monsignor (who was himself ill) could barely make himself
heard. The death toll in the diocese priesthood was above 120
and more than a thousand parishoners were known to have died.
Holy Family was one of just five churches still open. No one
passed out during Mass, but at the end a dozen people were
so weak that they could not stand. Four had no friends or
relatives to take them home. The Monsignor decided that they
should stay in his church; he asked Max (who seemed to be the
strongest and healthiest parishoner) to take charge of their care.

With a sad nod, Max agreed. His house felt horribly empty
without Marie, Adam and Matt. He sensed that he would collapse
if he did not keep busy, keep moving. Eileen, whose symptoms
were worse when she lay down, was also willing to help. Her
first job was to inflate air mattresses in the Sunday school classroom.

Soon, the room was ready. Welcome to purgatory,
Max thought as he lifted the heaviest man, whose skin felt hot enough to burn.

Max had no rest that night. He tended the sick people and
heard a confession from a man who gambled too much at
the Trump Taj Mahal (Max smiled to disguise a wince at the
mention of Marie’s favorite spot). The gambler died a few
minutes before midnight; the fat man succumbed just after
half past one, and the remaining two passed away within a few
minutes of each other, about half an hour before sunrise. Max
carried each body to a vacant room.

The church was about half full at morning Mass. One new
face belonged to Dr. Manfred Whitesell, who offered his services
to Holy Family. According to him, the hospitals had become
charnel houses; parishoners would be better off at home or
in a church like this. Ten people stayed behind after Mass.

Whitesell was sick, but far from incapacitated. He said that
ten patients would not be too many for him. He sounded
smug, Max thought, like a thinly disguised “Dr. God.”

The Monsignor gave Max a list. Take the dead people to any
mortuary that might be open. Bring back bottled water,
non-perishable food, linens, mattresses.

Max and Eileen (still able-bodied, but starting to look
thinner) set out a few minutes after nine. Street after street
was empty -- no big rigs or buses, no yellow taxis, no traffic
of any kind until they neared the City Mortuary on Bell Boulevard.

The building was closed, but many bodies had been dumped
outside. An empty-handed man got in his car and drove away,
leaving behind a chaos of seagulls, crows and vultures, of
punctured bags and bloodstained, filthy sheets.

Eileen uttered horrid gagging noises, and for several terrible
seconds Max feared that she was about to die. But after clearing
her throat with a series of coughs, she was able to speak: “Daddy ...
please don’t let me be eaten.”

Max hugged his daughter. “Honey, that won’t happen."

******************************************************************************************************************************

By dawn on July 2, Eileen was too weak to stand. She became
delirious in mid-morning, and seemed to recognize neither
Max nor the Monsignor. Max cleaned and caressed her with
hands which were calloused from his shovel work. The
Monsignor administered last rites and continued to pray at
her side. Her neck and tongue darkened, swelled, as if they
were being cooked by her blistering fever. Her body thrashed
in non-stop convulsions. A few minutes after 11, she rattled.
Her convulsions became weaker, then stopped. Her eyes fixed on Max.

He closed her eyes as tears flowed from his own, but he kept
his composure as he kissed her, wrapped her, carried her, and
dug a place for her to rest.

When he was finished, he turned to his sick companion, now
the only living person other than Max at Holy Family. Recent
dreams were in mind, dreams set at a place called Hemmingford
Home in Nebraska, where corn grew tall.
“Monsignor, I have to go. West. But I don’t want you to die alone.”

“I am never alone in this house of God. Go to your mission,
Max. Godspeed and God bless.”

Max returned to his house, where he collected food and other
necessary items, including his family’s most prized possessions.
Then he drove to Manhattan. He went past Mike’s
apartment building, where he had collected the body two days
ago. He paused at the 27th Precinct house, which had been
gutted by fire and was still smoldering. He cruised along the
streets of East Harlem, where he and Mike had done so much of
their work. He saw few bodies (all stripped to the bone by birds
and rats) and not a single living person until he reached
124th Street near PS 67.

A young, straight-haired Afro woman sat on the stoop of a
graffiti-covered brownstone. When she looked up, Max
recognized her -- Marilee Willow.

Max said, “I think we’re going to the same place. Hop in.”

As Marilee came to the passenger door, Max noticed that her
eyes were red.

“I buried Atlanta this morning,” she said, sitting beside Max.

“I’m so sorry,” Max said, patting her shoulder.

“She told me about the first time she saw you over a year ago.
You and your partner were the first cops she saw
as good men.”

“We wouldn’t have been the only ones.”

Max reached in his console and selected a cassette of
The Fantasticks. In seconds, the voice of Jerry Orbach
singing Try to Remember filled the van. Max and
Marilee held each other and let their eyes weep until the song
was finished. Then Max put the van in motion and turned left
onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, where he followed the lowering sun.

THE END