The grass still has brown patches, but spring has indeed sprung. I bike on the path through the trees instead of on the road. As long as I follow in the general direction of the Verrazano, I’ll end up at the fort and be afforded a good view. Which, of course, might afford whoever’s here a good view of
me
.
And I think someone is here. It feels
recent
. It’s alarming how quickly the world has taken on a dead feel, but there’s a pulse this side of the fence. I trust my instincts. They don’t yell
run
, not yet, but they do say
beware
. On my right and through the trees and brush, which I wish were leafier to provide better cover, is a grouping of buildings that look burnt. I steer clear and get on the now-hidden bike path. Old stone walls—what’s left of the batteries of the fort—sit among the vines, surrounded by trees.
The bike path ends at a wider path and open expanse. I stop to listen. Wind in the branches, that’s all, but the pulse has sped up. I stay in the tree line and circumvent an empty parking lot until a break in the trees provides me with the information I need. The bridge curves across the water, tall and graceful as ever, with one significant change—a long stretch of roadbed in the middle of the span is gone, and sunlight streams through where there was once upper and lower roadway. A car couldn’t cross it, and neither could a zombie, but it’s possible someone on foot could travel along the cables or sides that look intact. I suppress my whoop of joy. I didn’t realize what a weight the unknown was until the warm sunlight on my shoulders is a comfort rather than a sweaty punishment. I can’t see the Brooklyn or Manhattan skyline from here, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going. Unless Brooklyn’s burned completely to the ground, it’s my next stop.
Just before I throw my leg over the bike, something gives me pause. A tickle, a niggling feeling that I’m not alone. There’s no clear sign, but it’s there nonetheless.
Run
. But I don’t. This isn’t a zombie, and running won’t help. The pulse pounds in my ears. It’s stealthy and watching from the trees behind me and in the stand of trees to my left.
I lean my bike against a tree trunk, bend to poke at my bootlace and slip my pistol from my holster. I thoroughly dried, reloaded it and wasted one bullet to be sure it works, but I don’t want to have to use it, especially on a human. I do my best to give off an oblivious to my surroundings vibe and hope they can’t see how my hand shakes. Maybe I look relaxed, but my brain jumps from thought to thought, all the while expecting a bullet in the back.
I catch movement to my left. A man, crouched and watching. Between him and the ones behind, I’m outnumbered. If I can move his way and purposely put a tree between me and the ones at my back, I might get a chance to speak before they blow me away. And they must be entertaining the idea or else they would’ve said
hello
or
freeze
or something.
I rise and take my handlebars, blocking the gun in my right hand with my body, then wheel my bike left along the road toward the fort, just past the man. Once there’s a tree between us, I drop my bike and rush into the foliage. A moment later, my gun is pointed at the back of his blond head.
“I have a gun on you,” I say. It comes out scratchy and rough, a voice mostly unused for days. “I don’t want any trouble. I just want to get to the bridge.”
He doesn’t answer and he doesn’t move. Ever since I was a kid, Dad drilled the rules into my head: Never point a gun at something you don’t mean to shoot. Treat every gun as if it’s loaded. Never, ever point it at another human, even as a joke, even if it’s unloaded and you’ve checked it 100 times. It’s nearly an effort of will to aim at the high and tight haircut. But I will shoot him. If he means to kill me, I’ll kill him.
Feet stamp on the path. Silhouettes of two men moving fast. I keep my eyes on Blondie.
“We got you, Blake,” one says. They’re behind me. If I shoot, then they shoot. No one wins. Well, I guess they do, but Blake and I lose. “Drop the gun.”
“I only want to cross the bridge,” I say. “My sister is in Brooklyn.”
“Then you should drop your weapon.” The voice is forceful but quiet.
I’m out of options, although I’m not going to
drop
anything. This gun is mine. I tuck it into my holster, then raise my hands. They’ve stopped shaking—on the outside, at any rate.
“Turn around.”
I do. Two guys stand with their weapons drawn. One is Asian and almost as broad as his five foot nine, the other white and a couple inches shorter with buzzed dark hair. They wear a uniform of blue pants and shirts under black tactical vests emblazoned with POLICE. The embroidered white lettering on their shirts is covered except for the word GUARD, and both uniforms are in serious need of a wash.
U.S. Coast Guard, I’m guessing. Their expressions are as identical as their uniforms—brows lowered, mouths tight—but they don’t look infuriated enough to kill me. Aggravated, maybe. Definitely suspicious. But I can’t fault them for that.
Twigs snap behind me until Blake is at my back. “Move out,” he says.
I step to the paved path and await my next instructions. Blake comes close, his thin lips tight and light blue eyes icy. “I’m taking your weapon. Do you have another?”
I look him in the eyes as he pulls my pistol from my holster. “A .22 in my bag, along with a Swiss Army knife and another hunting knife. Knife on my belt. Multi-tool in right jacket pocket. Knife on inside of left boot.”
Blake raises his blond eyebrows, and I could swear the corner of his mouth flickers. I could’ve tried to leave out the boot knife, which has a thin but deadly tip, but he would’ve found it and all trust would’ve been blown. Besides, my brandishing a knife would only result in a dead guy—me—holding a knife and riddled with bullets. These guys have uniforms, as though they still trust in civilized society, and, while they’re screwing up my day, I don’t think they have plans to kill me unless necessary.
Once he’s stripped me of my pack and everything remotely weapon-like, Blake steps back. The Asian guy has spoken into his radio, although I couldn’t hear what he said. The three of them stand, waiting for something.
“Sorry about that, man,” I say to Blake. “I wasn’t going to shoot you. Unless you shot at me, of course.” My attempt at humor lands on deaf ears. If there was a flicker of a smile of before, there’s none now. “Can I lower my hands?”
The short, dark-haired one nods. All three are in good shape. Well-trained in the way they keep their eyes on me while they also watch the surrounding area. We can’t be in danger of zombies or else we’d be on the move. They gesture me back twenty feet, where the trees on my left end and I get a view of a large field. In the middle, the triangular concrete anchorage of the bridge slopes up from the ground to meet the roadway, with the main cables disappearing somewhere into its cavernous space. The angle of the slope is such that I could’ve easily walked up, met the road, and been on my way. I was so close, and I try not to despair at how far from crossing the bridge I am now.
A clopping sound like horse hooves starts distant and moves closer. I think it must be my imagination until a horse and rider appear on the path. As it nears, the rider comes into focus—mid-sixties, with a white mustache and white hair that waves in the breeze. He looks the part of a sea captain, and the grooves on his brow deepen when he hops from his horse and hands the reins to the dark-haired guy.
After a short conversation with the Asian guy, he steps in front of me, hands behind his back and head tilted. He wears civilian clothes, but there’s no mistaking his authority. “You pulled a gun on my men?”
“They were hiding in the trees behind me.” I make sure not to sound pleading. He nods as if it’s as good a reason as any, then waits for more. “My name’s Eric Forrest. My sister’s in Brooklyn. I have to cross the bridge to get to her, but I wanted to see it first to make sure I could. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
His eyes shift from my face to my bike to the bridge, then back. “You can’t ride across the bridge.”
“No, sir. But I can ride as far as the break in the road and walk, I think.”
“Where’re you coming from?”
“Pennsylvania. I went down to Philly for family and then came up here.”
“Did you find your family in Philly?” he asks. I shake my head.
I lost family
. “How’d you get on the island?”
“The Outerbridge.” His white brows rise, and I add, “It’s blown to shit and I had to take a swim, but I got across.”
He nods and waves his hand at the three men behind him. “Give Mr. Forrest his weapons.”
I’m sure I’ve heard him wrong. “You’re letting me go?”
Blake hands me my gun. I stow it in my holster before he can change his mind and take my knives and multi-tool. They’ve left the others in my bag, which I sling on my back.
“I’ll do you one better. You’ll stay the night here and we’ll get you onto the bridge in the morning.” He holds out a hand, and I shake it after I’ve moved my knives to my left hand. “Name’s Jerry Strand. I’m Chief of Police. You can call me Jerry.”
Between the horse, the Coast Guard and now his being the Chief of Police, I’m confused, which is probably obvious. “Horse is the Park Police’s. Behind me are Petty Officer 1st Class Blake Rush, whom you threatened to shoot,” he points to the Asian guy, “Assistant Chief of Police Ren Homma, and, next to him, Petty Officer 2nd Class Warren Johnson. We’re the Coast Guard Police at Fort Wadsworth.”
He takes the reins and raises his chin at the opposite end of the field. “Let’s head back. It’s safe out here for the most part, but there’s always one of those bastards somewhere.”
We cross the grass toward the bridge anchorage. The guys don’t look displeased at the turn of events, but they also aren’t clapping me on the back. I’d pictured more of a family reunion-type atmosphere when I ran into my first people in a week. I think of a million things to say, but I inspect the park instead.
When we reach the anchorage, I glance up at the underside of the bridge. It’s high even here, and this is just the beginning. We continue up a rise and pass a patch of asphalt that contains shipping containers. It’s surrounded by fence posts that are missing their fencing.
“How’d you get through the fence?” Jerry asks me. “Do we need to repair it?”
“You’ve got a spot where two fences meet, and the taller one doesn’t have barbed wire.” I explain the area, and he eyes his three officers. I’m not making any friends here.
“Where’d you get the guns?”
“They’re mine,” I say. “Not that it matters now, but they’re registered and I have a concealed carry permit in Pennsylvania.”
“You one of those militia guys?” Ren asks. “Maybe we should check you for a swastika tattoo.” He stops to assess me with cold, dark eyes and a slight curve to his lips that suggests he’s enjoying this line of attack.
I stop walking, but I won’t rise to the bait. “Nope,” I say with a shrug.
Blake and Warren stand on either side of Ren, bookends in blond and brown. Jerry and the horse plod on. I don’t look to him for help. Obviously, we four have to have it out in some sort of agonistic behavior ritual, like dogs fighting to be Alpha. I lower my bike to the ground and straighten up.
“That permit isn’t recognized in the state of New York,” Ren says. He puts out a gloved hand, palm open. “I’m going to have to confiscate your weapons.”
The other two rest hands on the guns at their hips. Mine curl into fists. I wouldn’t mind Jerry’s intervention now, but he’s busy murmuring to the horse and putting distance between us.
“Good luck with that,” I say. After the past days, I’m ready to beat the living shit out of someone, and here I’ve found someone who deserves an ass-beating.
“Failure to obey a police order could put you in jail,” Ren says. “I don’t think you want to be in a cell right now. Hand it over.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I use all my might to not pull my gun, although my hand spasms with the urge.
“Yeah,” he says. And, slowly, the straight line of his mouth curves upward. “I’m just fucking with you, man.”
I’m so furious that it takes a moment to absorb his words. Blake and Warren clap Ren’s shoulder while they all have a terrific laugh at the new guy.
“Sorry,” Ren says, hands raised and still smiling. “Couldn’t resist. You seem cool, just needed payback for pulling that gun on my brother here.”
“You and your brothers need a lesson in stalking if you don’t want a gun on you. I could hear you a mile away.” I let out my breath through a clenched jaw and relax when they all hoot as though there was never any animosity.
Blake steps forward and shakes my hand. “No hard feelings. It’s good to see another living soul. How was Philly? I’ve got a second cousin there.”
“It’s empty,” I say. He nods at the ground as if I’ve confirmed his expectations.
Ren and Warren shake my hand. Jerry turns and calls, “You done kissing and making up? We’ve got a shit-ton of work to do.”
“Yes, Chief,” they call.
Warren insists on wheeling my bike while I walk in the center of the three, who pepper me with questions. I answer as best I can, hating to be the bearer of fucked-up news, but they take it in stride.
“All right,” Jerry says, “let the man have a private thought. Galley’s open soon, so how ‘bout you clean up and then meet us there?”
“You have water?”
“So far, so may as well enjoy it. It’s cold as a witch’s tit, though.”
A man and woman stand at the intersection of two park streets up ahead, obviously keeping watch. Nothing lurks outside the block-long brick building behind them except someone having a smoke. I seriously consider bumming one, like I used to bum one of Cassie’s after a beer or two, but I imagine no one wants to part with their precious nicotine at this point. We cut left and head for a rectangular grouping of brick buildings, and now I see where that missing fence went—it’s in the process of being erected around this area.
Jerry hands off the reins to a man with another group of soldiers—Coast Guard, Park Police or who the hell knows who—and points at where a mishmash of fencing is going up down the way. “Not pretty to look at, but it’ll be fence number two. We’re going to make this whole area a fort, even if we have to dismantle the fort and bring it up here to make it happen.”