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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.
“When we get through this, Arlys,” Jim said in her ear, “and the world’s sane again—relatively—you’re keeping that anchor desk on The Evening Spotlight.”
The big guns, she thought. And thought, too, of what she’d learned from Chuck. It would never happen.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“Solemn oath.”
Fred set the written copy on the desk, and a mug of water. “Thanks.” Arlys checked her face, smoothed her long bob of deep brown hair, ran through some tongue twisters when she got the thirty-seconds mark.
At ten, she rolled her shoulders, at five turned to the camera, waited for Steve to give her the go.
“Good morning. This is Arlys Reid in New York with your Morning Report. Today, the World Health Organization estimates the death toll from H5N1-X at more than one billion, five hundred million. Yesterday, President Carnegie held meetings with officials from the WHO and the CDC, including the heads of both organizations and scientists who are working around the clock to create a vaccine to combat the virus.”
I’m lying, she thought as she continued. Lying because I’m afraid to tell the truth.
Lying because I’m afraid.
CHAPTER FOUR
While Arlys gave her report, Lana listened to the ugly news layered on ugly news as she looked out the window.
She loved the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows, loved being able to look out at what had become her neighborhood. How many mornings had she or Max run across to the little bakery for fresh bagels? Now, instead of a display window filled with tempting pastries and cakes, boards covered the glass and obscene graffiti covered the boards.
She tracked her gaze down to the corner deli where she’d so often joked with the cheerful woman behind the counter. Doris, Lana remembered. Her name was Doris, and she’d always worn a white cap over tight, tight gray curls and bright, bright red lipstick.
Only the day before, Lana had looked out this same window to see the once-busy, family-run deli reduced to charred brick, still-smoking wood, and smashed glass.
Surely for no reason other than vicious glee.
So many shops and restaurants she and Max had patronized, had enjoyed, were closed now or had been destroyed by looters or vandals.
Other lofts and apartments were empty or locked up tight. Did the locked ones hold the living or the dead?
No one walked the sidewalks this morning. Not even those who sometimes ventured out to scavenge for food or supplies before they locked themselves in again. Not a single car drove past.
They came at night, with the dark. The self-dubbed Raiders. Was there any other word for them? Lana wondered. They came out, roaming in packs like rabid wolves, roaring along the streets on motorcycles. Firing guns, heaving rocks or firebombs through windows. Smashing, burning, looting, laughing.
The night before, awakened by the shouts, the gunshots, Lana had risked a look. She’d seen a pack of Raiders all but on the doorstep of their building. She’d watched two argue, fight, draw knives while others circled to cheer on the blood. They left the vanquished bleeding on the street—but not before kicking him, stomping on him.
Max had called the police. His own growing powers helped him boost the signal, as phones—landlines or cells—rarely connected now.
They’d come, clad in riot gear, a full hour after the call. They had bagged the body and taken it away—but hadn’t bothered to come in and interview her or Max.
She could see the blood on the street from the window.
How could the world have gone so dark, so cruel? And at the same time when such light had come into her? She felt it bloom, felt it glow, felt that rush of power whenever she opened herself to it.
She knew it was the same for Max, that blooming, that discovery.
She’d seen for herself there were others. The woman she’d watched leap off the roof of the building across the street. Not in despair, but to soar joyfully on luminous, spreading wings.
Or the boy of no more than ten she’d watched skipping down the street, turning the streetlights off and on with his waving arms.
She’d seen the dance of tiny lights, watched some flutter close enough to her window that she could make out their figures—male, female.
Wonders, she thought. From this very window she’d witnessed wonders. And viciousness. Human cruelty that rampaged with guns and knives and wild eyes. The dark side of magicks that tossed lethal balls of fire or struck others down with black, screaming swords.
So even as her light grew, the world died, in front of her eyes.
With a shuddering heart, Lana thought of the numbers reported by the woman on TV. More than a billion and a half dead. A billion and a half lives wiped away, not by terrorism, not by bombs and tanks or mad ideology. But by a virus, germs, some microscopic bug scientists labeled dispassionately with letters.
And people more succinctly, to her mind, called the Doom.
Arlys Reid was now Lana’s primary touchstone with the world outside the loft. She clung to the daily broadcasts because the reporter seemed so calm, so impossibly calm as she spoke of horror.
And hope, Lana reminded herself. The continuing work on a cure. But even when it came—would it come?—nothing would ever be the same again.
The Doom spread its poison so fast, while magicks, both the dark and the light, rose up to fill the void death created.
What would be left at the end of things?
“Lana, come away from the window. It’s not safe.”
“I shielded it. No one can see in.”
“Did you bulletproof it?” Max strode to her, pulled her back.
She turned into him, squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, Max. How can this be real? There’s smoke to the west. It’s all but blocking out the sky. New York’s dying, Max.”
“I know it.” Enfolding her, he stared over her head, at the smoke, at what looked to be birds, black against the gray, circling. “I finally got ahold of Eric.”
Lana drew back quickly. Max had been trying to reach his younger brother for days. “Thank God! He’s all right?”
“Yes. He hasn’t been able to reach our parents, either. Wi
th them traveling in France when this hit … There’s no way to know. I haven’t been able to push the signal that far. Yet.”
“I know they’re all right. I just know they are. Where is Eric?”
“Still at Penn State, but he says it’s bad, and he’s going to try to get out tonight. He’s going to head west, get away from the city. He’s got a group of people to travel with and they’re stockpiling supplies. He was able to give me the location before the signal dropped. I just couldn’t hold it any longer.”
“But you reached him, and he’s all right.” She held on to that, and to Max’s hands. “You want to go, find him.”
“We have to get out of New York, Lana. You said it yourself, the city’s dying.”
She glanced back at the window. “All my life,” she told him. “I’ve lived here all my life. Worked here, met you here. It’s not our home anymore. And you need to find Eric. We need to go, find him.”
Relieved she understood, he rested his cheek on the top of her head. He’d found his place here, in this city, considered it his power center—for the writing he loved, the magicks discovered inside him. Here, he’d truly begun, studying, practicing the Craft, building a satisfying career. Here, he’d found Lana; and here, they’d started to build a life together.
But now the city burned and bled. He’d seen enough to know it would take them into hell with it if they stayed. Whatever else he might risk, he wouldn’t risk Lana.
“I need to find Eric, but you—keeping you safe—that’s the most important thing to me.”
She turned her head to brush her lips over his throat. “We’ll keep each other safe. Maybe one day we’ll come back, help rebuild.”
He said nothing to that. He’d been outside the loft, he’d scavenged the streets for supplies. His hopes of coming back had already died.
“One of Eric’s group’s family has a vacation home in the Alleghenies, so they’re heading there. It’s fairly isolated.” Max continued to watch out the window where birds—were there more of them now?—circled in the rising smoke. “It should be safe there, away from urban areas. I’ve mapped out the route.”
“It’s a long way from here to there. Reports—the reliable Arlys Reid—say the tunnels are blocked. And the military has barricades up now, trying to keep people contained.”
“We’ll get through.” Drawing her back, he gripped her shoulders, ran his hands down her arms as if to transfer his determination to her. “We’ll get out. Pack up what you need, only what you need. I’m going to go out, get some supplies. Then we’re going to steal a car—plenty of them abandoned. I can start it.”
