Tim Washburn - Powerless

“You don’t want to go to the bridge, man,” he says in a slurred voice. The young man is now standing directly in front of Greg, and his breath is ninety proof.

“Why?”

“Because they’re guarding it on the Jersey side. Apparently, they don’t want to be overrun by a bunch of New Yorkers.”

“So no way across?” a dejected Greg says.

“No, dude. Why do you want to go to Jersey anyway? This is the greatest city on earth.” He laughs and takes another slug of whiskey. He holds the bottle out. “Hey, man, want a hit?”

“I’ll pass. But thanks for the info.”

“No prob, friend. Y’all stay safe.” The young man continues his stumbling lurch down the sidewalk.

“What are we going to do, Greg?” Lara says, throwing her hands up in frustration.

“We’re going to keep going.”

“Why? You heard the guy. They won’t let us cross.”

Greg turns to face his wife and whispers, “Because we have no other choice, Lara. We have to keep going. Maybe we can find a way to get across.”

“So, we’re going to just saunter across the bridge and say ‘pretty please’ to a bunch of armed men?”

“Goddammit, I don’t know, Lara.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you have any better suggestions?”

She lowers her head in silence.

“Look, Lara”—he cradles her chin in his hand and lifts her head up until their eyes lock—“if we can’t cross, we’ll just keep going north into upstate New York. At least we’ll be out of this crazy city. Maybe we can find a little cabin at one of the state parks.”

“And what are we going to eat, Greg?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have all the answers, Lara. Hell, I don’t even know all the questions. But I can promise there’ll be much less competition for food, water, and other necessities away from this city. Let’s make it to the bridge tonight, and we’ll see for ourselves. Maybe we can find some way across.”

Near West 120th Street and Amsterdam Avenue

New York City

Greg leads them away from Columbia University and they turn west on 120th Street, trying to avoid walking through the main part of Harlem at night. Harlem is not any less safe than the rest of Manhattan, at least during the day, but two people shuffling along the streets in the dark might be too tempting a target for any neighborhood. At Riverside, they discover streams of people heading north. They turn right and duck into an alcove fronting an ornate old church. They watch as the people pass—a mixture of young and old, some with children and some without. A good number of people are pedaling bicycles, swerving around those afoot.

Lara leans over and whispers in Greg’s ear, “Are they all going to the George Washington Bridge?”

Her hot breath sends a shiver along his spine. “I guess so,” Greg whispers back. “I don’t see how those on the Jersey side can hold back a mass exodus.”

“Guns and bullets, that’s how. They only have to defend an area about a hundred feet across to choke off both levels of the bridge.”

“But still, that’s a lot of people. They can’t shoot them all.”

“No, they can’t. But do you want a front-row spot in the charge across?”

“Hell no.”

“Exactly. Should we fall in with them?”

Greg nods and leads Lara away from the church. Within a couple of blocks they pass the entrance to Grant’s Tomb as they continue their trek northward. In typical New York City fashion, the conversation between marchers is limited, most trudging onward with their eyes forward, their faces displaying grim determination.

As the Connors break into the clear where Riverside transitions to an elevated roadway, they look down on another stream of people clogging the Henry Hudson Parkway. Moonlight shimmers on the Hudson and the distant Jersey shore is eerily dark. Greg leads them over to the concrete balustrade, where they pause to rest.

Lara points toward the river. “Look, Greg, there are people in the water. Maybe we could swim across the Hudson.”

“When’s the last time either of us went swimming? It’s nearly a mile across and the currents are treacherous. A few of them might make it to the other side, but you and I don’t stand a chance.”

Lara sighs and sags against the barrier. In the distance the two towers of the suspension bridge are silhouetted against the darker sky. On any normal night, the old lady would be lit up like a Christmas tree—with lights running along the nearly mile-long suspension cables and the towers, which would have been illuminated like pieces of fine sculpture.

Lara and Greg push off the wall and weave through the stalled cars, continuing on. As they pass West 158th Street the quiet shatters. They come to a dead stop. Muzzle flashes flare on both ends of the bridge. And not just sporadic fire. A sustained barrage of gunfire erupts. Still some distance away, the sounds of the battle are delayed for a few seconds before echoing in the void. On the city side, whoever is fighting is about a third of the way across the nearly five-thousand-foot-long bridge. Those on the Jersey side are firing from a position much closer to their side of the river.

“Damn,” Greg swears.

“This was a mistake.”

“Maybe our side can push across. I can’t tell if there’s fighting on the lower deck of the bridge. You see anything?”

His question is answered before Lara can reply. Muzzle flashes light the enclosed lower portion of the bridge—yellow strobe lights in a sea of darkness. With horror, they watch as an automatic weapon of some sort shoots tracers across the span, lighting the night sky with tendrils of red. On the top level, a streak of intense white light flashes and something on their side of the bridge explodes, sending a hot orange fireball into the cold night air.

Greg slumps to the curb. Lara tosses the backpack to the ground and sits down next to him.

“I had no idea those type of weapons would be in play. That’s military-grade stuff. Anybody within three hundred yards of that machine gun will be shredded.”

“Maybe our side has some, too,” Lara says.

“If they do, they aren’t using them. I wonder how long the fight has gone on?”

“I bet within hours of the blackout. I just don’t understand why they won’t let us cross to their side.”

“It’s called survival, Lara. I understand their position. I don’t agree with it, but I do understand it. Turn millions of people loose on the other side and every available resource, already in very short supply, will be decimated.”

Lara sags against him and rests her head on his shoulder. “What are we going to do, Greg?”

“We need to find a place to bed down and, I guess, we wait to see if our side can get across the bridge.”

“But for how long?”

“A week, maybe. If it doesn’t happen by then, we’ll need to continue upstate.”

“And go where?”

Greg pauses before answering. “I don’t know. But I do know that we won’t survive if we stay in the city.”

They rest for a few moments as the battle on the bridge rages. Numerous automatic weapons are now in use and more of the larger explosions light the night sky, like a Fourth of July fireworks show gone terribly wrong.

After sharing a bottle of water and a PowerBar, Greg stands and pulls Lara up. He glances at his wrist before realizing he had left his watch at home to make them less tempting targets. He glances at the sky, but having no knowledge of the stars or the constellations he doesn’t have a clue what time it is. But it must be late because the steady stream of escapers has slowed to a trickle.

They trudge onward.