The Risen Storm (After The Rising Book 1) Page 4

  “It's going to be ok Danny,” George said, ruffling his sandy blond hair. “Let's go find your mom ok?”

  They pushed past the mob rushing towards the elevators and continued scanning the crowded room. George noted with some irritation that his cellphone still beeped a busy dial tone whenever he tried to use it. If there was really a terror attack, then all the lines were probably jammed with people anxious to call their families.

  Danny suddenly tugged at his hand, pulling him eagerly toward one end of the room.

  “Mom!” He shouted happily, and George saw his wife amidst a crowd of Chinese or Japanese tourists. She had her back against one of the walls, her honey blond hair bobbing in a sea of black, and it looked like she had also been busy scrutinizing the crowd for them. The pressure in his chest lifted and he realized how relieved he felt that they were all back together again.

  They embraced tightly, ignoring the crowd that pressed against them from all sides, and little Danny hugged them both fiercely from below.

  “What's happening?” She asked, the anxiety in her eyes plain for even Danny to see.

  He gestured vaguely towards the outside. “Something's happened on the New Jersey side, lots of smoke, helicopters buzzing all around.”

  Fighting had erupted between people trying to get into the packed elevators, and the commotion had spread into a confused melee that surged back and forth and threatened to engulf the rest of the people inside the deck.

  George hugged his wife and son close to him, keeping his hand pressed against the side of Danny's face to shield him from the growing sounds of curses and yells emanating from the agitated crowd, and he guided them back towards the open air deck.

  “Let's get out of here,” he said, as a woman started screaming about being trampled. “I think we'll be safer up here than fighting against that mob back there.”

  The moment they got out George realized things had gotten worse. Much worse. Faint wisps of smoke now rose from several spots along the New York side, as if the fires had jumped the Hudson, which was a preposterous notion, but one that George did not want to dwell on for long.

  Instead, he scrounged up more quarters and aimed the same viewer at one of the nearer sources of smoke, at the intersection of 7th avenue and 33rd street. He could just make out a massive pile-up of cars and trucks, wedged between the circular walls of Penn Station and the dark massive tower of One Penn Plaza skyscraper.

  George had been to scenes of traffic accidents before, and the one thing you could always count on was the propensity of people to gather around the incident. This was not the case here, as he could see tiny dots retreating eastward along the street, winding their way around traffic and the wreckage of other accidents. It was a surreal sight given the lack of any sound, as if a war movie had started and the theater had forgotten to turn on the sound.

  “What is it George?” Myrna asked fearfully, and he made way for her to take a look at the silent bedlam below. She peeked tentatively into the binoculars, while George attended to his son. Danny had scrunched his eyes shut and was clinging desperately to his mother's pants legs. He gave him a few strokes on the head and Danny looked up fearfully at his father. He kissed him on the forehead and smoothed his hair down.

  “You okay there Danny boy?” George asked, but before Danny could reply, Myrna gasped and pulled at her husband's jacket.

  “What is it?” he asked, and Myrna shook her head, confusion written plainly on her face. She didn't answer but motioned to the binoculars and he returned to peering into it.

  At first he thought nothing had changed, but when he glanced questioningly back at his wife, she obligingly angled the viewer slightly upwards and he suddenly spotted what she had been watching.

  He felt a cold shiver run through him.

  There were things down there, pale angular figures, all sharp edges and elongated limbs, and they were moving at unnatural speeds eastwards along 33rd and 34th street, their flickering forms casting long shadows under the setting sun. He pushed off from the machine and vigorously rubbed his eyes, wondering whether he was going crazy, then moved closer to the edge of the deck, gripping the iron bars with hands that were suddenly freezing cold. The individual figures when seen by the naked eye coalesced into what seemed like an immense liquid mass that originated from the west side piers and flowed into the streets and avenues of Manhattan, a phosphorescent white storm surge that engulfed vehicles and fleeing people alike.

  He looked at his wife wide-eyed, then peered back again into the binoculars. This time he needed to angle the viewer at a downwards angle in order to capture the front of the surge, which had flowed quickly past Penn Station and lapped at the front of the Macy's department store on its way to Sixth Avenue. He saw vehicles that looked like police cars speeding towards the front and disgorging tiny dots that he took to be police officers, but other than that he saw no organized resistance on the ground to this invasion of the city. There was just no time, as everything had happened so fast, and the tsunami of grotesque figures rolled over the token resistance as if they had never been there at all.

  George felt a hand on his shoulder, the grip hard and desperate. “What are we going to do George?” Myrtle whispered, her eyes wide and frightened, one arm clutching Danny close. He closed a hand over hers, and felt it trembling when he squeezed it to try to reassure her.

  But George knew there was no way down, as that immense horde would have encircled their building by now and continued on its way eastwards, intent on swallowing the entire island whole. He had seen some of those hellish figures scrabbling effortlessly up the side of the One Penn Plaza skyscraper like monstrous roaches up a kitchen wall, and he had no reason to doubt the much taller Empire State Building would prove any hindrance to their assault.

  He forced himself to look away from the conflagration below, pulling Myrtle and Danny closer to him, shielding them from the cold wind that heralded the onset of dusk.

  “We're going up,” he told them grimly. “It's our only chance.”

  Although most tourists ended up on the main observation deck at the 86th floor, George knew a small observation pod existed at the 102nd floor and was accessible via a manually-operated elevator. A door then led to stairs ascending to the topmost 103rd floor, which was originally designed as a landing platform for dirigibles in the early twentieth century, with the floor below it acting as the customs and port of entry for passengers.

  He took a long deep breath, and without looking back they hurried back inside. Behind them the sun dipped below the horizon and signaled the beginning of the first long night.

  CHAPTER 8

  Day 1 (8:40 am EST)

  University of Southern California, Los Angeles

  Nanotechnology is an idea that most people simply didn't believe.

  - Ralph Merkle

  The city was burning again.

  John Chen had once seen youtube videos of the riots in 1992, more than two decades ago. He had watched and rewatched the events of that time repeatedly, fascinated by the rapid breakdown of order as the seeds of discontent among the city's underclass finally erupted in an orgy of death and destruction. The disorganized and overwhelmed LA police at the time managed to contain, then dampen the mobs, but only after help from the National Guard.

  This time things were different. The fires stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, fanned by the Santa Ana winds blowing into the Los Angeles Basin, the bright orange flames shooting up hundreds of feet into the air. Smoke billowed from gutted buildings and formed an impenetrable haze that blotted out the a good part of the morning sky. John wondered whether the fires would ever reach the campus. He supposed anything was possible, though he was not planning on being here when it did happen.

  He had been sleeping in his apartment in Royal Street when he had awakened from his deep slumber. He had opened bleary eyes, disoriented at first. A quick peek out his window revealed distant fires to the northeast, their bright orangey glow flickering be
tween the leaves of the Jacaranda trees that lined the street below.

  He had immediately realized that something was wrong. His door was ajar, the doorknob twisted at an odd angle. All the other rooms he could see from his doorway also had opened doors, and two had been torn from their hinges. He pursed his lips, considering, then walked carefully to the room across from his and peered in.

  The fat slob who lived in that room was nowhere to be seen. He had been a prissy blubbering fool who had once complained to the superintendent about the loud music coming from John's room. When John confronted him later he had stammered and fled to his room. John had a brief glimpse of an obsessively neat and tidy kitchen to one side before the door was slammed in his face. He had hammered on the door and shouted insults at the creep for effect, but his anger was mostly feigned. The look of sheer terror on the dork's plump overripe face with its multiple chins and fleshy jowls was hilarious.

  The fat boy's room wasn't so tidy now. Chairs had been flung from one side to the other; the small dining table, which had a cheap Formica top and flimsy metal legs, had been caved into two halves that sagged against each other like drunken brawlers; a 42 inch Vizio LED television had its screen shattered and pieces of broken plastic scattered around it like fallen autumn leaves. Whatever had happened, old fatso had certainly put up a good fight.

  But there had been no sign at all of the missing boy, and a quick check of other rooms had revealed similar fates for his other neighbors. Some rooms had been eerily untouched, except for rumpled bed sheets or a flickering TV still facing a sofa with no one watching, while others were just as disturbed as the first room. The one thing they all had in common was that there was no sign at all of the occupants.

  John had hurriedly dressed and gone out. He felt no fear or even any hint of anxiety. In his view of the world, he was firmly entrenched in the starring role in the grand movie that was life, and in his mind heroes never came to grief, no matter how many extras had gone the way of the dodos in order to advance the plot. He had been curious, yes, and perhaps even mildly perturbed by the night's events so far, but his over-riding emotion was a perverse delight in the belief that something big had happened, and that this heralded equally big changes for him.

  He had seen no one. It had been an eerie experience walking the quiet and deserted streets. The student apartment complexes and fraternity houses that lined 30th Street rose silent and brooding as he had walked past. Even more ominously, the retail establishments and residential complexes of the new USC Village, which were normally bustling with pedestrians even during the early mornings, were utterly devoid of activity or people.

  Now he planted himself on the center of Trousdale Parkway, surrounded by clusters of red-bricked USC buildings, and grinned widely. Behind him the three story Bovard Administration Building loomed with its central tower flanked by two wings, while the bronze statue of Tommy Trojan stood on its granite pedestal in eternal and silent vigil. It was as if time had been frozen and the world itself was waiting in hushed anticipation of his next move.

  “Helllooooooo!!!!!” He cupped his hands and shouted. “Helloooooo!!!!! Is anyone here?”

  John listened. He had not expected a reply, and he wasn't disappointed. He imagined the rest of the USC University Park campus similarly deserted, or even the entire City of Angels and its environs, from the steep mountain slopes and beaches of Malibu to the dated attractions of Long Beach. Come to think of it, why stop there? He had no reason to believe what had happened here had not happened to the entire state, the country, perhaps joy of joys even the entire world.

  He had always wondered whether other people were as real as him. Did they really think? Were they capable of emotions and their lives imbued with the same free will that coursed through his own veins? Or were they holographic manifestations of his own mind? If so, if they were simply props to fill out the never-ending story that revolved around him, their existence mere validation of his central place in the universe, then what would this sudden disappearance mean?

  Something rustled behind him and he turned. The USC student center, also known as the Ronald Tutor Campus Center, was anchored at one end by a restaurant called the Moreton Fig, which got its name from two spectacular figs that dominated the front of the eating establishment.

  John had always been somewhat perturbed by the two iconic trees, which had been fixtures at the campus since the 1960s. He had strict notions of what trees should look like, and both of these stood out for all the wrong reasons. Aerial roots, some thicker than a man's thighs, reached down from the upper branches to drive themselves deep into the earth around the central trunk, forming a dense inter-locking mass held up by massive buttress roots. The whole spectacle looked quite grotesque to him.

  The crown of one of the trees started shaking, as if buffeted by some windstorm, though the air was still. Something tall and very thin slowly clambered down, its long-fingered hands using the aerial roots as handholds. It was a pale red all over, and irregular patches of its skin were translucent, showing the pulsing veins and arteries and organs underneath. It was hairless throughout, and its face was almost featureless, save for two tiny slits for eyes, and a prominent protrusion where the nose and mouth used to be.

  John stared. Two more of its kind emerged from the tree tops, one jumping down and landing lightly on its taloned feet. He whirled at sounds behind him. A crowd of the gaunt pale figures had appeared and formed a barrier along Trousdale Parkway, blocking the way back to his apartment. Behind them more and more of the demonic creatures appeared and closed ranks with their brethren. They came from inside the university buildings, and from behind the trees that lined the campus parkway. Tens, then dozens, then hundreds. An army of pallid figures that stood shoulder to shoulder and stared back at him in mute silence.

  He was surrounded. They filled the entire area in numbers that staggered John's imagination, crowding around him in their packed masses like rabid believers genuflecting before their idol. He could feel the heat from their bodies coming at him in waves, and an aroma redolent of vanilla filled the air. John could almost imagine them waiting in anticipation for what he would say next.

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  “I...” he began, and that's when the nearest creature stepped forward. One second it was 20 feet away, and the next second it was in front of him, its body reeking of that subdued orchid smell. He raised his arm instinctively to ward off the intruder, and it dipped its head forward.

  John lost all feeling in his right arm.

  “Huh?” He said. The creature had fastened its proboscis onto his upper arm. The flesh nearby had turned a dark bruised shade, and seemed to have visibly shrunk, as if its contents were being sucked out.

  He felt something grip his left shoulder blade from behind, and then that too lost all sensation. He felt heavy, and unbalanced, and he realized he was slowly toppling over backwards, dragged down by the weight of the second creature behind him.

  He gazed up at the sky. It was so blue, and not a single cloud to mar the picture. That was LA for you. Even the smoke from the fires to the north would take some time to ruin this day. From some distant part of the universe he felt another of the creatures leach onto his right upper thigh, then a few seconds later something bit off all the fingers on his left hand, except for the little finger.

  Poor lonely pinky, he thought, then chuckled silently, as the curious faces of the creatures blocked his view of the sky. They looked down at him, and John could see that the tips of their proboscis had inward facing triangular teeth clustered around their centers.

  “Whoever eats my flesh, and drinks my blood,” John whispered, then motioned them towards him with his fingerless hand. “Come to papa. Eat and be merry...”

  He started chuckling, then continued giggling as they took him up on his offer, though his peals of mad laughter were finally stilled when they tore the larynx out of his ravaged throat. One of the creatures that had been gorging itself looked up, perhaps
puzzled by the sudden onset of silence, but sensing that all was well dipped its head back into the milieu to continue its gruesome feast.

  In the distance the fires kept their smoky vigil, as the City of Angels greeted the dawn of another sunny LA day.

  CHAPTER 9

  Day 2 A.R. (11:30 pm EST)

  500 miles Northwest of San Juan, Puerto Rico

  Ethical guidelines by the Foresight Institute for molecular nanotechnology prohibit the unconstrained self-replication of molecular assemblers.

  Annika was resting in her stateroom when the call came in. She fumbled with her phone, still groggy from lack of sleep.

  “Yes?” she mumbled into the phone, glancing quickly at her bedside clock and noting that it was a half hour to midnight.

  Edmund spoke from the other end of the line. “I'm sorry to disturb you Ma'am,” he said worriedly. “But Mr. Jiang from room 1848 is on the line and complaining that all the news channels on his TV are gone. I tried to get in touch with engineering but they don't have any information on the problem either.”

  Annika groaned and sat up, running her fingers through her hair and wondering for the umpteenth time why she ever decided to take this position. Babysitting and coddling the rich and famous was definitely not what Robin Leach made it out to be.

  In this case, the Chinese delegation at the ship's largest and most elegant stateroom had become a chronic headache for her the last two days, much to the dismay of Annika, who had thought people from China were always polite and unassuming.

  She had been briefed by the hotel manager himself that the delegation were special guests, and that they represented investors in China who were considering assuming a significant stake in the company, and therefore Annika was willing to bend over backwards quite a bit to ensure that they remained happy and contented.

  But in addition to the continuous lists of complaints which issued from the delegation, most of which were trivial and even petty, Annika had to handle accusations from the housekeeping staff that they were having to fend off sexual advances from some of the more aggressive men in the group.