SINK - Melt Book 2: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series) Read online

  Now that Paul had finally managed to leave a message for his sisters—especially the message for Petra, telling her not to give up or give in or lose hope—he was desperate to get an update on his own situation; most importantly, who was working to get them out of this infernal mess? He tapped in a couple of search terms, “Manhattan” and “rescue efforts.” He hadn’t lied to Jim when he’d said Manhattan was falling apart, but that wasn’t the whole story. What baffled him was where the rescue effort had disappeared to? They’d lined the streets when he’d arrived at St. Patrick’s, but since the hospital collapse he hadn’t seen a single firefighter or doctor or nurse or EMT. And here he was, trapped between two impossibly looming cracks which divided the street ahead. Bottom line, he had a dying girl in his arms and no place to go.

  There had to be officials who knew what was going on. Manhattan didn’t just fall into the abyss, street by street, without the Fire Department and Emergency Services and the Mayor’s Office getting involved. Heck, with the amount of damage he’d seen, and this chemical corrosion on the wind, the CDC had to be involved.

  The stranger came to, shaking off his lethargy. “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to since my building was evacuated. Everyone else…” he waved a hand up and down the street at the running, climbing, falling, swearing, frantic people, “they’re all out for themselves. No one stops. No one gives a flying fig about anyone else.”

  Paul leaned around Angelina, trying to type with her balanced on his lap. It was cumbersome and awkward. He was trying to be gentle, but how can you be gentle with 75 pounds of girl on your lap? He was most scared of dropping her. If she hit the road, she’d have all that gruff and grit in her wounds and then she’d get a secondary infection and no one would be able to save her. He stopped himself; so he was thinking she was still salvageable? That gave him a boost. He could do this. He could get her to safety. He could save at least one life.

  “I’ll hold your friend for you, if you like.”

  “That’s cool,” said Paul. “We’re good.” He didn’t want to let her go. She was his responsibility. Fishgirl was his. Finish what you’ve started. Mom was never more adamant than when she talked about responsibility and care for others.

  “I’m Phillip, by the way.” He sat down beside Paul.

  “Hey, Phillip. I’m Paul. This is Angelina.”

  Paul was scrolling through Phillip’s news feed—phone in one hand, the other looped around Angelina—looking for something he didn’t already know. The headlines were useless. “Building collapse.” Well, duh. “Chemical leak.” He clicked on that link. It had no real data. All it said was there were reports of a chemical leak, with no further details. It said nothing about people losing their skin to chemical burns or of having their lungs singed from the inside out. Somehow, those details hadn’t hit the wires. They were all chasing their tails, the way they did at the beginning of a new news event. Later, when they knew what had happened, this footage would become stock. People would see it and say, “Do you remember where you were when…”

  They would all remember. People who hadn’t been there would remember. It would start with a story about putting the coffee on or flicking through the TV channels or getting a phone call from a relative who had already had their coffee and seen the news and soon everyone in the country—not just the people who had actually been there and been hurt or crippled or gotten seven-hundred-degree burns like Angelina—all of them would have PTSD from the incident. He couldn’t fault them for it. Not really. They would all watch the footage countless times until their brains thought they had been there. Not consciously, but deep down in the ancient structures of the brain.

  He’d read all about it: how the human lizard brain only knows fear as fear, not as imagined or “watched on TV” fear, but actual fear. And from that, the memories built up a profile of real feelings of having been in a real tragedy when, in fact, they’d been a thousand miles away and safe. It didn’t help that the newscasters framed it as “it could happen to you” or “what if this happened here?” Very clever, that way of packaging the news, because he knew…the human animal is built to survive; deep down at the cellular level we’re all built to survive. No matter the cost. And watching a tragedy unfold on the news and imaging you were there provoked deep, ancient feelings in anyone watching. It activated their “must survive” buttons in the biggest way.

  Sitting on the edge of their couches, drinking their Folgers before they went to Starbucks for a Froo-froo drink, they were all in “flight or fight” mode. Paul was no different. Except in one regard: he was there in the thick of it, experiencing a disaster of unimaginable proportions. He was definitely in “fight or flight” mode. His adrenaline was up, the world was in sharp focus, he could see every little detail of everything around him: the cracks in the buildings, the ash on the wind, the fact that this wasn’t over. But more than that, he knew nothing was going to stop him from surviving. A building could fall on his head right this minute and he’d get back up. Somehow. He felt that strongly about not going down with the Good Ship Manhattan.

  Paul kept on scrolling. There was nothing. No “news” that was new to him. He looked up the City’s Emergency Services page. It was down. Brilliant. Just when he needed it, there was nothing to be found.

  They were on their own.

  “What’s up with her?” Phillip pointed at Angelina’s fish-skin covering.

  “Long story.” Paul handed the phone back and struggled to his feet. “You’re going to need to charge your phone soon.”

  Phillip looked at his phone and back at Paul. “I guess I should call my mom and tell her I am alright, huh?”

  Paul nodded. His gut twisted. If only he could call his mom. She’d have something smart to say. Something about where to go and who to find and what to do once he’d found them. She was his rock, his foundation, the person who kept him grounded in reality. He’d have given anything to talk to her, even for a second.

  “Hey, Mom,” Phillip’s voice wavered, the way a grown man’s voice wavers when he needs his mother. “Yep…” He paused while his mom freaked out on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, it was my building, but I got out. I’m on…” He looked around for a street sign. “I’m not sure what street I am on, but somewhere in the 30s. I’m safe.” Paul couldn’t hear the words coming at Phillip from hundreds of miles away, but he could hear the tone. She was terrified, but grateful. She wanted to say everything, but she also wanted him to get off the phone and get out of there. “I love you, too, Mom.” It took another whole minute of “I love yous” for them to sign off.

  Paul was jealous. No question. Just straight up jealous.

  “I’m going to turn it off,” said Phillip. “Save some juice for when we really need it.”

  Angelina moaned and her eyelids fluttered. Moment of truth. She needed more pain medication. He snapped one of the syringes off his scrubs and pulled the lid off with his teeth. The Professor had told him what to do. Just plunge it into a muscle. The thigh is good. Still, it was freaky to jab someone and hold them while they wailed, hoping all the while that the descending scale of scream was going to be her last. Eventually she did wind down and fall back asleep, but only after he’d broken out in a sweat and Phillip had backed up half a city block with his hands over his ears.

  Paul struggled to his feet. “I need to get her to the nearest hospital.”

  Phillip jogged back to his side. “Mind if I tag along?”

  He couldn’t very well say no, though Paul didn’t want to be responsible for Phillip if he did something stupid and got himself injured or killed. It was hard enough being responsible for Fishgirl, who was so frail and flimsy and fly-away. He needed to anchor her to the world. He couldn’t be looking out for Phillip, too. He grunted and shrugged and took a couple of steps down the avenue.

  There was no way ahead. The only way was back the way they came. His scrubs were top was, but that was from the jagged bits of building he’d passed as he ran for his
life. It wasn’t pocked or disintegrating the way his jacket had been back on 38th Street when he’d hidden out in the fire engine. Perhaps the ash that was falling on them now was plain old building rather than building plus contaminant-that-kills-on-contact. That wasn’t strictly true. Kills-minutes-after-contact was more accurate. He tried not to think about Robeson or the Briefcase Man or the Hospital Hacking-cougher who’d died at his side or even Fyodor who’d started to bleed then been whisked away. They were all part of the “first wave.” He was no scientist, but he had a nagging worry that there was going to be a second wave. He might be part of that second wave, he might not.

  He didn’t dare touch his neck where Angelina had leaked or oozed or transferred some kind of fluid—blood or that thin, not-quite-puss-but-not-water fluid that builds up on cuts—onto him. If she had, there was nothing he could do about it. Nor did he bother feeling the back of his head. Another thing he couldn’t change. “Life is to be lived; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.” Pure Alice, courtesy of Ralph Ellison. He would soldier on and make her proud.

  He checked that Angelina was halfway decent, covering her with the sheet as best he could, then hoisted her back over his shoulder, fireman-style. She moaned again, this time a more sustained sound that bordered on language. She wasn’t fully awake, but neither was she fully asleep. No way she needed more medicine. Perhaps if he just waited, she’d settle. It was like Midge back when she was a baby. She’d fall asleep during her bedtime story, but the minute you stopped reading she’d rouse and grumble and snuggle up close and demand you stay another ten minutes. He just needed to give Angelina another ten minutes.

  The crack that had opened up the west side of the street was thin enough down towards 10th Avenue that they could step over it. He had no way of knowing where other cracks might be or might appear. He had to let go of all expectation and simply move. He was operating on pure instinct, leaping without a net.

  They cleared the end of the street and were headed south. The water hadn’t caught up with them and no more gaping fissures had swallowed streets or buildings or vehicles. Things were looking up. Around the next corner there were people. Glory, halleluiah. He almost smiled. They were different. They weren’t in hospital scrubs like him. They were dressed. Real people, in the street, doing real people things like shopping or something. He picked up his pace.

  A window front shattered, glass falling in brilliant shards onto the street. Paul ducked. If buildings were going down in front of them, they were up the proverbial creek. A man in a blue shirt rushed the building. He was going in, not out. There was someone behind him, young, fit, and with something in his hand. Paul squinted to see what it was. The man pulled his arm back over his head, then pitched the brick or piece of concrete or whatever it was at another window. They were looting.

  Paul couldn’t move. Manhattan was disintegrating and these losers were hell-bent on splintering whatever peace and harmony and fellow-feeling that remained into a million glittering pieces.

  Chapter 16

  “He called?” Petra was a mess of hurt. “Give me the number.”

  “He won’t be there, Pet. It wasn’t his phone.” Aggie had already scrolled through the phone in Betsy’s kitchen. They had a land line with an answering machine. Who had such a thing in the 21st century? “He probably borrowed it. They’re in a…” She was going to say, “war zone” but that wasn’t a phrase Petra needed to hear. “They’re in a hurry. They need to get to…” Dang, it was hard not to say any words that would tip Petra into a full-blown panic attack. She couldn’t say “safety” or “shelter” or “refuge” or “giant, gaping hole in the ground that’s still getting bigger and no one seems to know why.”

  “Just give it to me.” Petra was in waterworks-mode now. These tears came from her heart. “I can try.”

  Aggie trotted to the kitchen to get the number. Jo stopped talking as soon as she walked in. Smooth move, buddy. Not at all sketchy. What could they be saying that required such secrecy? “Just going to get the number for Petra. She will never rest until she has tried to call Paul back.”

  Jo, Jim, and Betsy were huddled around the kitchen table, mugs in hand.

  “Do you girls want some hot cocoa?” said Betsy. “I bet you do.”

  Aggie looked her dead in the eye. “We want to know what’s going on.”

  Jim nodded. “We should tell them.”

  Aggie felt the jolt run through her. She could have been electrified for real and it wouldn’t have been any less shocking. They were hiding a bombshell. She needed to stay calm, show no emotion, not let them know how badly she needed to hear what they didn’t want to say.

  “Go give Petra the number so she’s occupied. And make sure Midge isn’t in hearing range.” Jim had made an executive decision. He was going to spill the beans.

  Aggie did her best not to run to Petra, stuff the number into her hand, and sprint back. She took her time, stroked her sister’s shoulder, made soothing noises, waited while she tried the number.

  Of course he didn’t pick up. Why would anyone in their right mind pick up when they were in the middle of the worst attack on Manhattan in over a decade? He had to be running for his life. He’d left a message. She should be glad he was alive. Paul was alive. It was amazing. She let the thought sit for a second. She needed all the good news she could get. But then the other thoughts crowded in. The ones about what he didn’t say. He hadn’t mentioned Dad. Did that mean Dad was…? She couldn’t say it. How would she ever live another day if Dad was…?

  “I’m going to keep trying,” said Petra. “Perhaps he’ll turn it back on again?”

  “Why don’t you leave a message? That way, if the person whose phone he used is still with him…” Ugh, every time she tried to craft a sentence, it went to the truth. She didn’t want to say, “if they’re both still alive” or “if the phone makes it through the next building collapse” or “if Paul is in a state to get a message.” She wanted to give her big sister some measure of hope. “Just leave a message.”

  Petra dialed the number and started talking. She was going to leave a novel at the rate she was going. As soon as she was cut off, she dialed back and kept on talking.

  Aggie pulled Midge in close and whispered. “Don’t leave her alone. You know how they are. They can’t bear to be apart. She’s one of two, not one of one. She needs someone with her.”

  Midge snuck up beside Petra and sat beside her.

  Aggie wandered back to the kitchen as nonchalantly as she could.

  Betsy had a tray of hot cocoa, complete with bobbing marshmallows, ready to go. “You want to take these, or should I?”

  Aggie didn’t answer. She couldn’t for the knot that was in her throat.

  Betsy took the tray, patting her shoulder as she passed. “I can check on our patient while I’m in there.”

  Aggie took a seat at the table with the adults. “What’s so important that the three of you have to retreat to the kitchen and take to whispering?”

  “Things are not looking good,” said Jim.

  There were words Aggie could have said by way of response, but she was the Queen of Restraint. She bit back the sarcasm.

  “Jo has been kind enough to use her contacts at the State Department to get more intel, but that’s still pretty darn thin.” He stirred his coffee. “Doesn’t matter what happened or how it got started…”

  Aggie opened her mouth to protest. Of course it mattered. Everything mattered. Her mom had gone missing when this whole mess kicked off. They had to know what caused it.

  He held up a hand. “Knowing the cause right now won’t help us prepare for what’s next.”

  Aggie sat back in her chair. She liked Jim. He didn’t talk down to her and never had. Let the man say his piece.

  “Your mom and dad made provisions.” He looked her square in the face. He wanted her to know he was telling her the honest-to-goodness truth.

  Again, the jolt ran through her l
ike pure, crackling energy right from the center of a red-hot sun, but she kept his gaze. She wasn’t going to be the first one to blink. She could take whatever was coming.

  “If they were in a car accident, for example, or a plane crash.” Jim stirred his coffee.

  The tears rose, but Aggie swallowed hard, willing them away.

  “In the unlikely event that they were both taken, we were to be your guardians.”

  “They have not been ‘taken.’” Aggie was on her feet. The word was bogus, for starters, but the idea behind the word was even worse. He meant “dead.” They weren’t dead. If they had been, she would have felt it. She and Dad were connected like that. If the cord between them had been severed, she would have known.

  “That’s possible,” said Jim. His voice hadn’t changed. No uptick in tone or pace. He was calm when the world was careening off course and hurtling into space. “But we have no way of knowing where they are or how they are faring. Let’s say the best possible scenario has played out. Let’s say they’ve been injured.”