Deadly Portents

MADHATTAN

"HQ, this is Ranger ten-niner. Now entering quarantine zone seven. LZ coming up in two mikes."

The oxygen mask muffled the chopper pilot's voice. His radioed response came back as garbled chatter through static. The island perimeter fence really did a number on our signal. Only the most powerful comms tower had any hope of transmitting through its electrical interference.

"Eyes up," the co-pilot shouted back at us. "We're dropping in two."

Sergeant Winters sat across from me. His gaze remain fixed on the decimated ruins of the lost city below us. I couldn't tell if he was nervous through the black, emotionless visor of his mask. God knows I had my misgivings about the mission. No amount of training could fully prepare a person to descend into a hellhole as bad as Manhattan Island.

I visited New York once before — years ago, before the outbreak. My memories clashed with the scarred shell passing by our feet. Skeletons of broken glass and smoking rubble covered the blasted, empty landscape. I knew somewhere down there, amongst the charred remains of this once great city, death lurked in the millions. The prospect of leaving the relative safety of our flying cocoon filled me with dread.

They never did reach a consensus on how the mess started in the first place. Ultimately, it didn't matter if it was some kind of terrorist attack or the wrath of God. Hell somehow escaped the Petri dish and very nearly overwhelmed us all.

A nuclear solution was entertained for a while, but there were concerns about how far the coastal winds could carry radioactive fallout. Shroeder's plan for a beefed-up electrified fence around the island seemed like the answer to everyone's prayers.

Staring down at the charred remnants below, I couldn't help but wonder if we made the right choice. The thought of a power outage leaving the rest of the world looking like this felt all too real from 800 feet above. Perhaps after our mission, they might finally give the asphalt graveyard the inglorious end it deserved.

"Colonel," Winters urged.

He stabbed a finger towards a communications tower erected on the roof of an approaching building. The spire was a ramshackle weld of metal piping, wire, and tubing. That it could broadcast a signal through the RF haze of his barrier only proved Shroeder's brilliance.

The scientist insisted on remaining within the QZ with his residual family, while everyone else struggled desperately to escape. He must have provided a compelling argument. The brass permitted him to continue his work in solitude for months, shuttling in food and supplies to aid in his search for a cure.

From all accounts, he was a bit of a mad genius. I spoke with some of the men originally assigned to his protection. He rampaged against their presence underfoot every day, not satisfied until they eventually pulled the detail. I expected my orders weren't going to sit well with him. That was too bad. He was coming back with me if I had to drag him from his penthouse apartment by his heels.

Assuming he was still alive, that is. His signal went dead a week ago.

Our ride stopped over the rooftop, careful not to clip the frame of the makeshift metal spike jutting from the building's crown. The pilot wrestled with his controls as crosswinds blowing up from the surrounding dilapidated high rises buffeted the aircraft. He jockeyed us to a good spot and gave the thumbs-up for our lines to drop. No matter how often I did it, repelling from a chopper always got my blood pumping.

Winters landed, gun at the ready, seconds after me. "Ranger ten-nine, this is recon. We're heels-down," I notified the pilot over the two-way.

"Roger that, recon. We'll hang here until you get back. Don't stop to sightsee. In 20 mikes, we're flying on fumes."