Quarantine Read Free

so distant. Sure, I was headed towards something that stirred hope in my gut, but getting there . . .
    At each intersection I stopped to check that the coast was clear before crossing the open terrain. I always stayed a few paces away from the dark facades of the storefronts, in case a Chaser jumped out and surprised me. I made sure my footing was on firm ground.
    Gunfire crackled from the east. A few single shots, then a continuous burst of machine-gun fire. I recognized it immediately, even though before I arrived in New York I wouldn’t have known the difference between the sound of an assault rifle and a pistol. I had never held a weapon, couldn’t imagine depending on one for my basic protection. But now the need to survive had made me an expert. An image of last night flashed in my mind’s eye: the soldiers at their truck, shooting at the Chasers, the aircraft coming in on an attack run . . .
    The gunfire petered out and my awareness of the present returned. Keep moving .
    I headed west at 56th. I knew I hadn’t traveled along here before, but it reminded me of so many other streets: the widespread destruction had rendered mismatched city streets uniformly gray and cold and frozen. Manhattan was one big canvas of repeating patterns. I passed a mail truck: which reminded of when I met Caleb. I checked inside it—nothing, no living thing. Nothing but windswept snowdrift and ash.
    At the next intersection, my back to a wall, I watched for movement reflected in a cracked pane of a store window. It seemed clear but then something shifted in the shadows across the street.
    People? More survivors, trying to make sense of what made no sense at all? How would they react on seeing me? What if I didn’t have the answers they wanted to hear?
    I could see them more clearly now. They were Chasers, but I could tell that they were only very recently turned, and had not yet had to fight, to kill. They were dressed in their warmest, best clothes. These were people who were used to taking care of themselves, who had never had to be content with making do. But that didn’t stop them looking wild. Angry. I smiled, tentatively, for a moment, as they emerged from the shadows. I’ve outrun you before . . . As I feared, they were anything but pleased to see me. These were the chasing kind; demented, driven crazy by isolation and captivity.
    Flat out, I ran down Seventh Avenue, the six of them after me. Seemed the chase was new to them; they strove to use muscles that had been inactive for over two weeks. The effort and pain intensified their rage. Their hunger drove them on, relentless.
    My feet skidded out as I turned onto 44th Street, falling as I slid on the ice and tripped over a street sign that was bent across the sidewalk and concealed by snow. Run! Got up and ran. Stopped at Ninth Avenue, looked back—they were gaining !
    South—keep moving south . I ran as fast as I could, my arms and legs pumping, my feet slipping and sliding over uneven ground and ice. At the end of this block I turned left, looked back—couldn’t see them yet . . .
    Then they appeared. Maybe it was the distance or my imagination, but they didn’t look exhausted: they just kept coming for me.
    I backed away, my feet heavy lumps of concrete. I turned and ran.
    At the next corner, at Tenth Avenue, there was a tall building about fifty stories high, an ugly seventies thing that stuck out in this neighborhood. I headed for it.
    The awning said “West Bank” and something about a theatre. I passed a café, doubled back, ran inside. I stayed low, tried to lock the door but there was only a keyed lock—I backed into the café, stopped dead still.
    There was someone behind me. A presence . . .
    A cough. Deep, like it belonged to a big man.
    I didn’t want to turn around— If this is how I am going to go, let it be quick .

3
    M y hand found the Glock pistol in my pocket. I drew it out, turned