by Lloyd Sabin
Editor's Note: The following is an excerpt from a work of fiction from a current draft written by The Wargamer's Lloyd Sabin. The contents of this piece have been reproduced with his permission.
He lay his head down wearily on his pillow and sighed. Rough day. As he rubbed his eyes and stretched his back, his hunger pains returned. He would have to wait until tomorrow morning to get more food, though, because these days, when the sun went down, the day was over. All safe outdoor activity stopped, and whoever found themselves outside quickly tried to get home, wherever home was.
He got up from his bed for moment, lit the thick, yellow candle stuck to his nightstand, and went to wash up at his “sink” — a rusty bucket filled with brackish water. He, nor anyone else in the city, had any clean running water anymore. After he washed up, he collapsed down onto his bed again, closed his eyes, and began to think. He thought of her again, and he thought of all the extraordinary things he had witnessed in the past few months. It was the same every night: he always thought of her and he always thought about the state of the world, the depth that he had seen people drop to.
Shots and screams in the distant interrupted his thinking. A deep rumble followed, then silence. He looked under his bed to make sure his knife was still there. Finding it, his tentative feeling of security returned and he began to think of her again. He had not seen or heard from her since electricity, phone and mail service ceased months before. He wanted to get in touch with her somehow, but it seemed impossible from his tiny apartment in New York City. With her 1300 miles away in Miami, the chances of them ever meeting again were remote at best.
Another volley of gunfire interrupted his train of thought. He stood up to lock his door and window, then leaned over to blow out his candle. He clicked on the small Honda generator next to his bed, and then switched on his television and his beat-up DVR machine. He took out his recording of the CBS Evening News broadcast of May 13, 2008. It was the last broadcast made by any of the national networks before the fall.
After a couple of seconds of empty blue screen, Dan Rather’s grizzled face appeared onscreen. “Among the many warnings that have been issued, federal and state authorities have declared bans on interstate travel, rationing of antibiotics and other medical assistance, and dawn to dusk curfews in most major metropolitan areas. The megalopolis along the I-95 corridor is now under a 24-hour curfew, from Boston through New York City and its environs, to Washington DC, until the situation is brought under control by federal authority. State militia and…”
On went the broadcast as his eyes grew heavy. Watching old television broadcasts gave him a sense of order and calmed him down. Typically one of these discs was the last thing he saw before drifting off into a disturbed half-sleep. The timer on the TV clicked off 15 minutes later and the room went dark. There was a soft rumble in the distance.
***
The next morning he woke up to a bright, clear day. The sunlight shone into his usually dingy room and highlighted all the cracks in his ceiling and walls. He walked over to his water bucket, splashed some of the dirty water on his face and over his head, under his arms and in his crotch, and put on a black hooded sweatshirt, a pair of old jeans and his worn work boots. After brushing his hair, he put on his black Knicks cap and pulled a clean surgeon’s facemask from the jumbo box, then tied it around his face. His stomach grumbled again as he picked up his knife, walked through his doorway out into the stairwell, locked his front door, and descended the steps to 23rd Street to get some food.
The sunlight was very strong and he squinted as he looked up at the buildings surrounding his own between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. The rows of tall brick apartments and storefronts and theaters looked beaten down. Some windows were smashed or missing, some apartments had fires burning in them unattended, and some buildings even had walls missing. The city was really turning into a living hell.
As he walked around the corner onto Eight Avenue down to 22nd Street to Lonnie’s grocery store, he saw two tall, heavyset national guardsmen in gas masks. They were peering at everyone on the street, unnerving everyone whom passed by. Although a 24-hour curfew was supposedly in effect, it was not enforced unless there was real trouble brewing. He picked up his pace and felt for his knife in the waistband of his pants; still there. He walked quickly through the front door of the grocery.
A buzzer rang in the rear of the store when he walked in, and Lonnie’s security guard, Billy, lifted his M-16 to greet him.
“Easy man, it’s just me!”