A. Colucci - The Colony

From the loudspeaker came a booming voice of the military that filled the hallways and stopped the frenzy of people in their tracks. “Attention, all hospital staff and patients. By order of the United States Army, all persons are to evacuate this hospital immediately. There will be no new admittance. Doctors and nurses are to assist as many patients as they can to evacuation locations, and those not able to move should be transferred to the lower levels of the hospital. We will have further instructions as the day progresses.”

There was a new rush of emergency personnel through the hallways, shouting and wheeling patients. Paul and Kendra stood like statues in the wind of a hurricane. Without saying a word to each other they walked back to the lobby, out of the hospital and away from the cries of victims, until there was only silence and the empty street again.

“FUCK FEMA!” MAYOR JOHN RUSSO yelled into his private line to the governor. “This is a war zone, Bob. I need military guys. Marines! Send me fucking Marines!”

Russo slammed down the gold-plated receiver, disgusted at being the only person left in New York who had any balls. The only official willing to make the hard decisions from the front lines. He stared down at the mounting list of callers, famous names from around the world offering useless assistance: celebrities, politicians, heads of state, wealthy private citizens.

And then there was the media. The damn media. Calls were coming in from every TV and cable news station, reporters from The New York Times, The Washington Post, Time and Newsweek. Nightline and Meet the Press were hounding him. Dateline NBC and 60 Minutes wanted to nail him. The list was endless.

Everyone wanted to know how he was going to kill the ants. When would the city be evacuated? Is it true that the only way to destroy the beasts was nuclear radiation?

There was no way to avoid it any longer.

U.S. Army Public Affairs was setting up TV cameras in the control center for the mayor’s first televised news conference, broadcast from an undisclosed location.

“Olivia! Find out if Paul O’Keefe is back yet,” bellowed Russo, and his secretary appeared in the doorway. “And those damn people from federal. I want up-to-the-minute reports. Those interviews start in an hour and I need answers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what about the president?” he added. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

“I’ll keep trying.” Olivia closed the door gently.

Russo pressed his palms against his temples and rubbed them down the sides of his cheeks, feeling the coarseness of two-day-old beard. That was unacceptable. He had seen the faces of other bureaucrats in disasters, their ridiculous attempts to look as if they were doing the work of the true rescuers. Digging out survivors from a bomb blast, pulling bodies from a flood, hosing down a four-alarm blaze. They all spoke to the cameras from a safe distance, with their sleeves rolled up and their twenty-four-hour stubble. That was for actors.

From the top desk drawer, he pulled out a silver-plated electric razor with engraved initials and a matching hand mirror. He ran the humming blade over his beard and blew the stray hairs from the desktop. He nodded approvingly at his reflection and leaned back in his bulky leather chair.

Focus. Focus. Focus, John.

The mayor knew the next few hours would make or break him and he wasn’t about to take any chances. Russo returned to his computer, linked up with the Siafu Moto command center in Baltimore. The screen read:

BREAKING NEWS… U.S. PRESIDENT DAVIS SEEKS CONGRESSIONAL AID FOR IMMEDIATE EVACUATION OF ALL NEW YORK CITY BOROUGHS, AS WELL AS SOUTHERN NEW YORK STATE AND NORTHERN NEW JERSEY… 3,000 ADDITIONAL MARINES HEADED TO MANHATTAN.

General Dawson walked into the office.

“Where have you been?” Russo demanded. He flicked the message onscreen. “It’s about time we got some more troops on the ground. I can’t exactly clear the city with what’s left of my police force—”

Dawson cut him off. “Those Marines won’t be coming. There’s been a change in plans.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you heard from Professor Hart and Dr. O’Keefe?”

Russo shook his head.

The general replied gravely, “I’ve deployed a special task force to the bunker immediately. They’ll be arriving within an hour to keep order and begin a steady evacuation by helicopter.”

“Just wait one minute.” The mayor scowled. “Down here I’m in charge. You’re in my territory. This is still New York City, and what I say goes.”

“This is a military operation. I get my orders from the commander in chief.”

“So do I,” Russo angrily retorted

Dawson was in no mood for a stalemate. He laid it on the line. “Look, we can help each other, but that means supporting the president one hundred percent, and as of now his plans have changed. We’ll be hitting this city with a series of low-yield nuclear bombs.”

The mayor was aghast.

Dawson looked him in the eye. “Plan is to cut off all bridges and tunnels with thermal air strikes, then hit Manhattan with four missiles.”

“I don’t believe this. Nuke the city?” The mayor’s thoughts hit a wall.

Colonel Garrett entered the office and announced to the general, “They’re loading up the planes, we’re getting clearance.” He gestured toward Russo. “Is he on board?”

“Are you insane?” Russo shouted. “No, I’m not on board! I was never informed…” He stammered, “On whose authority…?”

Garrett didn’t even blink. “We are under direct orders of the president.” He threw a copy of Operation Colony Torch onto the mayor’s desk. “We will stop these ants by nightfall, before they attack and spread even further, and we will bomb these bastards to kingdom come—as planned.”

“This is my city!” the mayor shouted.

“Your city has eight hours.”

THE FIRST LIGHT OF morning was returning to the sky, but everything looked colorless and gray, like the battlefields of war. The rain had stopped, but the cool air settled and lacy wisps of fog danced gracefully over the pavement. Manhattan was lifeless and nearly out of power. There were bodies everywhere, and Kendra was disturbed by how quickly she’d gotten used to the sight of them. She stepped over a partly devoured cat.

“You were right,” she said to Paul. “The ants are eating more than rats and people. They’re learning how to survive out here. Falling back on natural instincts.”

“There’s nothing natural about a planet ruled by insects.”

They were both exhausted but the evacuation announcement at the hospital had put an anxious spring in their step. “Do you think the army would actually nuke the city?”

“No way. They can’t be that stupid. I’m pretty certain if they dropped a nuclear bomb on Manhattan, the only thing crawling out of the rubble would be these damn ants.”

“Still, we better find that queen. Fast.”

Paul flipped on his flashlight. Once again they were standing in front of number 268 East Thirty-sixth Street.

“Go time,” Kendra said, and they headed for the entrance.

Rectangular sunlight stretched from two narrow windows that bathed the laundry room in a pinkish glow, electrified the beige walls and added sparkle to the line of steel dryers. It looked like any other laundry room in New York City, except for a pair of large Nikes sticking out from under a wash basin.

Paul and Kendra followed the feet to the body of an enormous man curled up under the sink. Paul squatted down to examine the corpse. “Body’s cold. Only a few bites and stings,” he said. “Yet his extremities are swollen and his pupils dilated. Maybe a heart attack.”