Нора Робертс - Year One

“That’s the official count for the media. The real count’s more than two.”

Her heart jumped. “More than two billion? Where’d you get that number?”

“I’ve gotta keep that under the vest. But it’s real, Arlys, and it’s going up a lot faster than the people in charge of this clusterfuck are saying.”

“But … Jesus God, Chuck, that’s nearly a third of the world population. A third of the world population wiped out in weeks?” Sick, she scribbled the number down. “And that doesn’t count the murders, the suicides, the people killed in crashes, fires, stampedes, the ones who’ve died of exposure.”

“It’s going to get worse, Arlys. In the saga of revolving POTUS? Carnegie’s out.”

“Define ‘out.’”

“Dead.” He rubbed his eyes, a pale and cagey blue in a lightly freckled face. “They swore in the new one about two this morning. Secretary of Agriculture—the ones ahead of her already hit by the Doom. Fucking farm lady is now running what’s left of the free world. If you report that, the jackboots are going to come kicking down your door.”

“Yeah. I’ll kill the comp like you told me if I decide to go on air with it. Agriculture.” She had to flip back through notes to the list she’d made. “She was eighth in line.”

As she spoke Arlys crossed out those who came between, and saw she’d already crossed out several following.

“If she doesn’t make it, we’re down to the Secretary of Education, and after him, there’s nobody left.”

“Honeypot, the government’s finished. Not just here, all over hell and back again. It’s a hell of a way to get rid of asshole dictators, but it’s a way. North Korea, Russia—”

“Wait. Kim Jong-un? He’s dead? When?”

“Two weeks ago. They’re claiming he’s alive, but that’s bogus. You can take it to the bank. If there’s still one open. But that’s not the biggest buzz. It mutated, Arlys. Carnegie—POTUS for a day? Well, three days. He had sores, sores broke out all over his body—and inside delicate orifices—before he showed the expected symptoms of the Doom. He was sealed tight, under watch twenty-four-seven, tested three times a day, and it still got him.”

“If it’s mutated…”

“Back to the drawing board with two billion plus and counting. But here’s the big boom: They don’t know what the fuck it is. The bird flu line? It’s bullshit.”

“What do you mean?” Arlys demanded. “They identified the strain. Patient Zero—”

“It’s bullshit, Arlys. The dead guy in Brooklyn, maybe. But the Doom ain’t no bird flu. Birds aren’t infected. They’ve been testing chickens and pheasants, and all kinds of our feathered friends, and nothing. And four-legged animals? They’re just fine and just dandy. It’s just humans. Just people.”

Her throat wanted to close, but she forced out the words. “Biological warfare? Terrorism.”

“No buzz on that, just nada, and you bet your fine ass they’ve been looking. Whatever the hell it is, nobody’s ever seen it before. What’s left of the powers-that-be? They’re lying, falling back on the let’s-not-cause-panic bullshit. Well, fuck that. Panic’s here.”

“If they can’t identify the virus, they can’t create a vaccine.”

“Bingo.” Chuck shot up a finger, made a check mark in the air. “They’ve got another route, and it doesn’t inspire confidence. I’m hearing chatter about military roundups, pulling people who are—so far—asymptomatic out of their homes, and taking them to places like Raven Rock, Fort Detrick. They’ve set up checkpoints, and they’re doing neighborhood sweeps, closing off urban areas. If you plan to get out of New York, sugarcake, do it soon.”

“Who’d report the news?” But her stomach clenched. “And how would I talk to you every day?”

“I figure I’ve got time before they come knocking, and I’ve got an escape hatch. If you use this, Arlys, no shitting around, get gone. Get supplies you can carry and get out of the city. Don’t fuck around.”

He paused, shot her that grin again. “On that note. Hit it, Frank!”

Arlys closed her eyes, let out a weak laugh when she heard Sinatra crooning “New York, New York.”

“Yeah, I’m spreading the news.”

“He sure made it. Skinny guy from Hoboken. Hey, I’m a skinny guy, too. It’s got a ring, right? Hoboken.”

His grin stayed wide, but she saw his eyes—his intense and serious eyes. “Yeah, I did a fluff piece there a million years ago.”

“Podoken Hoboken. It ain’t no Park Avenue, but its number-one boy sure went places. Anyway, gotta book. I was hackedy-hacking till three in the a.m. Three in the morning’s past even this boy’s bedtime. Keep it real.”

“You, too, Chuck.”

She ended the call, pulled up a street map of Hoboken.

“Park Avenue,” she mumbled. “And found it. Number One Park Avenue, maybe? Or … Park crosses First Street. Park and First, three a.m. if I get out of Manhattan.”

She got up, paced, trying to absorb all Chuck had told her. She trusted him—nearly everything he’d told her up to that morning had been verified. And what hadn’t been officially verified had swirled into the anonymous-sources category.

Two billion dead. Mutated. Yet another dead president. She needed to do some research on Sally MacBride—Ag Secretary turned POTUS, according to Chuck. She’d be ready if and when the change of power was announced.

If she went on the air with that, the uniforms—or the men in black—would certainly swarm the station. Take her in for questioning, maybe shut it all down. In the world that had been she’d have risked questioning, risked being hauled into court to protect a source. But this wasn’t the world that had been.

She’d stick with officially verified reports for her morning edition, that and her own observations. Then she’d write up copy from Chuck’s intel. Monitor the Internet—Little Fred could help her with that. If she could name another source, even from the deep Web, she’d protect herself and Chuck. And the station.

She knew there were people who depended on the broadcasts—for help, for hope, for truth when she could find it for them.

She sat back down, poured more coffee, wrote copy, refined it, rewrote, printed it. She’d have Fred set it in the prompter.

She took the copy with her to wardrobe, picked a jacket before going in to do her own makeup and hair. The world might be ending, but she would look professional when she reported same.

In studio, she found the bouncy, redheaded Little Fred chatting with the sad-eyed cameraman.

“Hi, Arlys! You were working away and I didn’t want to break your rhythm. I got some apples and oranges, put them in the break room.”

“Where do you find this stuff?”

“Oh, you just have to know where to look.”

“I’m glad you do. Can you set my copy up?”

“Sure thing.” She lowered her voice. “Steve’s feeling low. He saw some asshole shoot a dog last night. By the time he got down to the street, the guy was gone, and the dog dead. Why do people have to be so mean?”

“I don’t know. But there are people like Steve who’d go down on the street to try to help a dog, so that’s the other side of it.”

“That’s true, isn’t it? Maybe I can find him a dog. There are so many strays now.”

Before Arlys could comment, Little Fred dashed off to load the prompter.

Arlys walked behind the anchor desk, fit on her earpiece.

“Am I coming through?”

“We’ve got you, Arlys.”

“Good morning, Carol. I’ve got ten minutes of hard, another ten of soft. Little Fred’s loading it up.”

They talked production, added in copy Carol and Jim had written, worked out the opening story, the close—the unicorn got the close—and calculated they could offer a full thirty-minute report.