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

  She was supposed to be building a plastic-free structure for them to live in. It had been her suggestion. Building something completely new from scratch made more sense than ripping all the plastic-coated wiring and PVC plumbing out of the walls of the cabin. But was she up to that? Could she honestly design and build something habitable?

  She tapped a search into Petra’s phone, resisted the urge to look at the news—Dad said it was so filtered as to be useless anyway—and concentrated all her energy on the task at hand. Pole barns seemed like a good way to go. They’d be off the forest floor, away from predators, able to see what was coming at them. She paused. That also meant they could be seen. She didn’t want that. Half an hour later she was deep down her rabbit hole of research, watching videos of hardcore preppers building underground bunkers with nothing more than sandbags and plastic sheeting.

  Petra flung open the barn door. “I found Mom’s old wind up radio.” She had the portable radio in her hand, the news blaring. “You have to listen to this.”

  “Reports are coming in of multiple explosions in Manhattan’s crowded Midtown. No word yet on whether this is a terrorist attack.” The reporter paused. Not good for radio.

  Aggie was on full alert.

  “This morning, Manhattanites were shocked to wake up to a total building collapse on 39th Street. The 15-story building, close to the Lincoln Tunnel, collapsed after firefighters had been called to the scene. Reports are coming in that there had been a chemical leak in the building prior to the collapse. No word yet on what those chemicals were or whether they pose a hazard to the general public. The Fire Department is calling on New Yorkers to remain calm.” There was some paper shuffling and a slight cough. “Chief Cervantes, who is on the scene, likened this to a bad smog day in L.A. Asthmatics and those with compromised immune systems are urged to stay indoors with their windows closed. Now over to Josh for our traffic report.”

  “Josh Ditla here, with your Pinpoint Traffic Report…”

  “That’s it?” said Aggie. “That’s all they’re telling us? ‘It was a chemical leak and stay inside?’ What a load of baloney.”

  “Traffic is at a standstill throughout Manhattan,” said Josh. “We haven’t seen gridlock like this since…well, since forever.” He started listing roads and bridges and tunnels. The girls tuned him out. Didn’t matter which tunnels or closures or bridges he named. The underlying message was the same: everywhere was packed full of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  “How are they going to get out?” said Petra.

  “They’ll find a way,” said Aggie. “They always find a way.”

  “Should we call Dad?”

  Aggie shook her head. “He’ll call when he has news.”

  Petra dug her phone out of her pocket. “I’m calling him. This is killing me, not knowing what’s going on.”

  “Pet.” Aggie was up and beside her sister in two bounds, pulling the phone from her hand and ending the call. “That’s not what we’re supposed to do. He needs to keep his phone free in case Mom calls.”

  “Fine,” said Petra. “I’ll call Paul. He won’t mind.”

  Aggie handed the phone back. She wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t against the rules to call Paul. He’d be second string; important but not leading the charge. He’d be able to tell them what was going on. And if that got Petra to calm down, that would be a good thing. She didn’t need her sister going into full-on meltdown on her.

  The phone rang and rang. “Pick up,” she said. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.”

  “Maybe they’re right in the middle of something?”

  Petra grabbed at her stomach, slumping against the door. “No,” she said. “He’s in trouble. I know it.”

  On the one hand, Petra and Paul did have an uncanny twin connection; on the other, she was given to drama and histrionics. There was no way of telling which this was: twin-mind being spot on, or Petra-mind being way off.

  Petra closed her eyes. “He’s panicking. He’s not in a good place…”

  Aggie put her arm around her big sister. “Of course he’s not, Petal. He’s in Manhattan. Everyone is panicking.”

  “No,” said Petra, “this is worse. He’s afraid for his life.”

  “Dad will get them out of there,” said Aggie. “He will never let us down. Just you wait and see. They’ll be back just like you said.”

  “You think?” said Petra.

  Aggie nodded. She couldn’t help herself, though, she had to speak the truth. “But not by dinner time. There’s no way traffic is going to move fast enough for them to get out by then.”

  “But things are going to get worse, Aggie, not better. They need to get out of there right now.”

  Aggie couldn’t argue with that. She agreed. But there was no way to make it happen.

  “This just in…” It was the newscaster again.

  Both girls stopped dead.

  “New York’s Emergency Services Department has asked that no one move in or out of the city. It’s official, folks, they want us to shelter in place.”

  “Does that mean they’ll close all the bridges?” said Petra, her eyes wide.

  Aggie nodded.

  “So…” she was looking to her little sister for answers.

  Aggie didn’t want to tell her what she was thinking. She was thinking about the Lincoln Tunnel being so close to the explosion site. If that was flooded, New York would be devastated.

  She smiled. “There are still the ferries. Dad will get Mom and Paul to the ferries and they’ll make their way up here as soon as they can.” She wasn’t absolutely sure she believed it, but what could she do? If Petra lost it, she wouldn’t be able to keep Midge in check. “Help me decode these,” she said, pointing at the maps.

  Petra brushed away a tear. “How do you mean decode?”

  “Dad was tracking something but I have no clue what.”

  Petra peered at the maps spread out on the barn floor for less than a minute. “That’s simple,” she said, “the orange dots are salt mines and the purple ones are for gems.”

  Aggie stared at her sister, hard. How did she know that? How did Petra know anything about Dad that she didn’t? That wasn’t right. “When did he tell you?”

  “I study this stuff, doofus. I’m an Earth Sciences major. Geology is my specialty. He didn’t tell me anything.” She squatted down on the floor, examining the mines Bill had selected more closely. “I’d have to do some research, but I think he’s looking at abandoned mines.”

  “Abandoned?” Aggie was dumbfounded. She knew what that meant. It meant he’d taken their prep to the next level. You went to an abandoned mine when your own SIP bolt-hole was compromised and there was an imminent nuclear attack.

  That’s where his brain had gone: five steps ahead. Dad was looking at what needed to happen when they went to DEFCON 1.

  Chapter 3

  Paul had no way to call anyone; he’d accidentally thrown his phone out of the fire engine cab along with his jacket. Not a move Mom would be proud of. He needed to up his game, stay on the alert, think strategically. The ash had slowed, but not stopped. He hadn’t heard any explosions or seen flying debris for at least half an hour. The radio on the dash crackled, but no one spoke. There was a dead body underneath the rig. He couldn’t stay in the fire engine’s cab forever. He had a brief moment of mania when he contemplated driving the thing as hard and fast as he could until he found civilization again, but there were no keys and, anyway, he couldn’t leave Robeson under the wheels.

  He was inside the cordon. He and his dad had snuck in just minutes before the bombs started. Now it was probably locked down tight. No one would be able to get in or out except for emergency services personnel. Where were they? Why wasn’t anyone rushing past to tend to the victims? There had to be victims. No way there were that many explosions in the center of Manhattan without a boatload of people getting hurt.

  Still, no one came.

  He had to let people know he was there. He knew how to work walkie-t
alkies and CB radios. He picked up the handset and pressed a button. The radio crackled. “This is Paul,” he said, “Paul Everlee. I am at 38th Street between 10th and 11th.” He waited. No response. “I was with Firefighter Robeson when the explosions began.” What did he say next? I made it, but he didn’t? “Await instructions.”

  Minutes passed. He barely dared breathe. He stared at the radio, willing it to hiss or crackle or spit white noise at him. Anything other than this void. He picked at a hangnail, worrying it until it bled. That was stupid. He scanned the rig for a First Aid kit. Ten minutes of searching and he finally had a band-aid. Ten more minutes and he’d organized their kit for them so that the band aids were in height and width order, the sterile bandages in neat rows, and the antibiotic ointment in his pocket. Still, no reply from the outside world. The silence was as crushing as the massive slabs of concrete that had come hurtling down into the street. No one had heard him. He was in a grey nightmare, cut off from everyone he knew and loved.

  The hood of the engine looked weird. Like everything else in the street, it was covered with ash, but the ash on the hood appeared to be in motion, as if there were little creatures bubbling up from under the layer of grey; like chitons in the sand when the tide was coming in; burrowing and running and hiding from the seagulls, leaving a trail of tell-tale bubbles but nothing else. He leaned over the dash, as far as he could go, to watch. He wasn’t hallucinating. The hood of the engine was changing. A bubble burst and the ash fell into a hole. Was it rusted? Had the heat caused the metal below to give way? Another bubble burst, then another, then there were bubbles bursting all over the front of the rig, making pock holes that went clean through to the engine. A chill ran up and down his spine. He’d just watch something eat holes in solid steel.

  Something nagged at the back of his brain. Something his dad had blurted out before he went rushing into the heart of the fire. “It’s melting,” he’d said. “Everything is melting.” Had he been right? Were the cars around them melting?

  Then there was his jacket, with the tiny drop of red paint from the rig. It had started to disintegrate right there on the spot. He’d put it down to heat at the time, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Seemed like something else was in play; a compound more ominous than plain heat.

  Paul peered out of the window to see if he could pick his jacket out from the rest of the debris that was strewn about the street. He needed to know what had happened to it. The window was smeared with grey, making it impossible to see any detail. The world beyond the window was an ashen wasteland. He wanted to crank it down and get a good look at the street, but he didn’t want those noxious fumes barreling their way up his nostrils and down his gullet. If it was true—if his dad had been right and not off his rocker—then something powerful had been unleashed on Midtown. He needed to get away from this vehicle-eating cloud of dust.

  He searched around the cab of the rig. They had to have something he could wear, to protect him from this acid rain. There was a jacket, huge and thick and reassuringly heavy. It was probably made of something fire-resistant. That would be good. He grabbed one of their distinctive yellow helmets. Excellent. He’d have protection and he’d look like one of their own. He didn’t want to look like a terrorist, looming out of the dark, only to be gunned down by a well-meaning, trigger-happy cop.

  He pulled the jacket on, turned the collar up as high as he could, pulled his hoody strings tight so only his eyes were exposed, put the pitted, damaged goggles his dad had given him back on, and jammed the helmet down on his head. He was as covered as he could be and he meant to make a run for it.

  “Three…” He gathered his courage together. He was going to need it. “Two.”

  Directly ahead, a humungous creature—arms like giant sausages sticking out of a Michelin Man—broke through the thick, deadening mist. Paul scrambled, trying to back up, but there was nowhere to back up to. He was cornered. The creature—he had to stop thinking about it like that, it was a man, two arms, two legs, walking towards him in wide, deliberate steps—kept coming. Paul wanted to lock the passenger side door but couldn’t move his arms. The man was at the door, yanking, wheezing and climbing in beside him, bringing a swirl of death-dust in his wake.

  Paul leaned against his door, putting as much distance as possible between him and this interloper. He didn’t dare speak. Speaking might lead to answering and answering would mean he was real. The outer layer of the man’s clothing was melting, just as Paul’s jacket had melted. But this wasn’t a measly paint-like spot eating through the fabric. This was massive sink-holes opening up all over the place. If he didn’t get out of his clothes, Michelin Man was going to dissolve in front of Paul.

  He peeled off layer after layer, faster and faster, grunting and swearing and crushing his clothing into a small heap beneath his feet. Four coats and three sweaters later, Paul was face to face with Michael Rayton.

  “You have got to be kidding me…” Michael’s mouth fell open and then flapped about for a couple of seconds, no sound coming out. He looked as shocked as Paul felt. “Am I glad to see you. Have you found your mom?”

  Paul shook his head. He was calculating the odds of meeting up with someone he knew in all the mayhem. The more he thought about it, the less weird it seemed. They were near K&P’s headquarters. His mom wasn’t the only mad person who worked there. Her colleagues were all a bit possessed and compulsive about their work. “Hey…No. I haven’t seen her. Did you see my dad?”

  “Your dad’s here?” Michael bundled up his wilting pile of clothes and threw them in the back of the rig. “I haven’t seen anyone for hours.” He pulled off his massive gloves and checked his face in the mirror. “That’s not true. I’ve seen a bunch of people, but no one living.”

  “My dad went in…” Paul pointed at the metal-munching clouds that barreled down 38th Street.

  Michael dug through the coats, checking the labels. “You’re a large?”

  Paul nodded. He was a skinny-tall, but firefighters probably didn’t have jackets for bean poles.

  “Take this. It’s all about layers. You want as much between you and MELT as possible. It needs to feed.”

  “Feed?”

  “Yep. The more it has to feed on, the less likely it will get to your skin. So, layers.” He shoved his arms into a coat, wrapped it tight, then pulled another on top of that. “They’re going at this the wrong way…” Michael was into the helmets now. One for him, one for Paul. “They’re trying to cut it off, when what they need to do is channel it. Give it something to feast on.” He wrapped a scarf around his face, then another to cover his ears and chin. “Head south. If you make it and I don’t, tell them to feed MELT, not try to cut it off. You understand?” He had his hand on the door handle. “Feed it.”

  “No.” Paul wasn’t ready. He needed Michael to slow down, explain what he was talking about. “Who’s ‘they?’ Why are ‘they’ trying to cut it off? Who needs to feed what? I’m not getting it.”

  Michael had his hand on the door handle, pressing down. “We’ve got to get out of here, Paul. This entire block is going to go under. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Paul looked out the window at the grim, foreboding landscape. “I’m not ready.” He whispered.

  “We’re never going to be ready, kid, and that’s the God’s-honest truth. All we can do is run hell-for-leather and hope for the best. See you on the other side.” Michael launched himself out the door and set off towards 10th Avenue.

  Paul wanted to run, be with someone, not get left behind again, but he needed to grab Robeson. He’d take him to the nearest morgue so he could be handed back to his family. He pulled his second coat tighter. The hood of the rig was buckling. Not popping and bubbling, but folding in on itself with a sickening, slow screech.

  “Okay, no more stalling.” His hand was on the door. “Three, two, one, go.”

  He catapulted himself out of the rig, bent down and grabbed Robeson by the feet and pulled him out from unde
r the parked engine. Robeson was more tattered flesh and exposed bone than he had been an hour ago. Perhaps it was just as well to leave him there and report that he had died doing what he loved: pulling others from the jaws of death.

  Paul hunted the sidewalk for his jacket. He couldn’t see it. He needed his phone. He kicked the ash a little, but all he found were lumps of rock and metal. The arm of his new jacket began to bubble. He couldn’t stick around, not even for his phone; he needed to get going. There was no way he could run. Not in his flimsy trainers. There were too many jagged edges and buckled bits of road. He should have spent an extra minute and found some boots. And, besides, the ash was clouding his goggles. He tromped as hard and fast as he could back towards 10th Avenue.