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He looked down at his hands. “I can do that. We’ll head north, get into the Bronx.”
“The Bronx?”
“The main problems are the tunnels and bridges. We’ll need to get over the Harlem River, but the last I heard, people aren’t being stopped from going into the Bronx.”
“How do we get there?”
“The Park Avenue Bridge looks like the quickest.” He’d been studying maps for days. “It’s a train route, but a truck or SUV could handle it. It’s only a little more than three hundred feet, so we’re off nearly as soon as we’re on. And we keep going north until we can cut west into Pennsylvania. We have to get out of New York. Worse is coming, Lana.”
“I know. I can feel it.” Gripping Max’s hand, she turned toward the TV. “She’s saying that the government, the scientists, the officials are all claiming they’re close to a vaccine, but I don’t feel that. I don’t feel that, Max, as much as I want to.”
Resolved, Lana stepped back. “I’ll pack, for both of us. We won’t need much.”
“Warm clothes,” he told her. “And wear something you can move in, run in, if necessary. We’ll pack up food—but keep that light for now, too. Flashlights, extra batteries, water, a couple of blankets. We can get more supplies once we’re on the road.”
She looked at the wall of shelves—floor to ceiling like the windows—and the dozens and dozens of books—some with his name on them.
Understanding, he shrugged. “I’ve read them anyway. I’m going out, getting us a couple of backpacks. Meanwhile, pack one bag, Lana, for both of us.”
“Don’t take any chances.”
He cupped her face, kissed her. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.” But as her nerves skittered, she held on another moment. “Let’s just go now, Max, together. We can get whatever we need once we’re out of the city.”
“Lana.” Now he kissed her forehead. “A lot of people who took off unprepared ended up dead. We’re going to keep our heads, do this step-by-step. Warm clothes,” he repeated, and went to put on his own coat, pulled on a ski cap. “An hour. Bolt the door behind me.”
When he went out, she turned the locks he’d installed since the madness began.
He’d come back, she told herself. He’d come back because he was smart and quick, because he had power inside him. Because he’d never leave her alone.
She went into the bedroom, stared at the clothes in her closet. No fun or pretty dresses, no stylish shoes or sexy boots. She felt a little pang, imagined Max felt the same pang about leaving the books.
Necessity meant leaving things they loved—but never each other.
She packed sweaters, sweatshirts, thick leggings, wool trousers, jeans, flannel shirts, socks, underwear. One blanket, one big, warm throw, two towels, a small bag for basic toiletries.
In the bathroom she sighed over her collection of skin-care products, hair products, makeup, bath oils. Convinced herself that one, just one, jar of her favorite moisturizer equaled necessity.
She walked out into the living room as Arlys Reid ended her broadcast with a report of a naked woman riding a unicorn on Madison.
“I hope it’s true,” Lana murmured, shutting off the TV for the last time.
For sentiment, she selected her favorite photo of her and Max. He stood behind her, his arms around her. Her hands crossed over his. He wore black jeans and a blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and she a floaty summer dress—with the lush green of Central Park around them.
She packed it, frame and all, between the towels. And slipped in a copy of his first published novel, The Wizard King.
For hope, she went into his office, took his flash drive where he backed up his work in progress. One day, when sanity came back to the world, he’d want it.
She set out the two flashlights kept in the skinny kitchen closet, the spare batteries. She gathered bread she’d made only the day before, a bag of pasta, another of rice, bags of herbs she’d dried, coffee, tea. She used a small soft-sided cooler for the few perishables, some frozen chicken breasts.
They wouldn’t starve—for a while at least.
She unrolled her knives, the gorgeous Japanese blades she’d saved up for—months of scrimping, but so worth it.
She probably shouldn’t take them all, but she admitted leaving any behind would break her heart more than abandoning her wardrobe. Besides, they were tools.
She rolled them up again, set them aside. Her tools, she thought, so she’d carry them in her backpack. Her tools, her weight.
However foolish it was, she went in, neatly made the bed, arranged the throw pillows.
She dressed—warm clothes, thick socks, sturdy boots.
When she heard Max’s knock—seven times, three-three-one—she all but flew to the door, yanking at the locks. Then flung herself into his arms.
“I wouldn’t let myself worry while you were gone.” She pulled him inside. “So it all crested and ebbed the second I heard your knock.”
Tears swam into her eyes, shimmered—and she burst into laughter when he held out a burgundy backpack with candy-pink trim.
He grinned back at her. “You like pink. They had one in stock.”
“Max.” Blinking away the tears, she took it. “Wow. Already heavy.”
“I loaded them both up—yours and my manly camo.”
Though
he didn’t tell her his held a 9mm and extra clips he’d found in a looted storeroom.
“I got each of us a multi-tool and a kit for filtering water, some bungee cords.” He took off his hat, shoved his fingers through his hair. “We’re New Yorkers, Lana. Urbanites. We’re going to be strangers in a strange land out there.”
“We’ll be together.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“Good. I won’t let anyone hurt you, either.”
“Let’s pack up the rest. We might have to hike awhile before we find something drivable. I want to be out of New York before dark.”
As they added to the backpacks, he eyed her knife roll.
“All of them?”
“I didn’t take a single pair of Manolos. That stings, Max. It stings.”
He considered it, then chose a bottle of wine from the rack, slipped it into his pack. “Seems fair.”
“It does. You have a knife on your belt. That’s a knife sheath, isn’t it?”
“It’s a tool. And a precaution,” he added when she said nothing. After a moment, he unzipped the front pocket of the pack, took out the gun and holster.
Shocked, sincerely, to see a gun in his hand, she stepped back. “Oh, Max. Not a gun. We’ve both always felt the same way about guns.”
“A strange land, Lana. A dangerous one.” He clipped it on his belt. “You haven’t been out in nearly two weeks.” He took her hand, squeezed it. “Trust me, it’s necessary.”
“I do trust you. I want to get out, Max, get somewhere guns aren’t necessary, and knives aren’t a precaution. Let’s go. Let’s just go.”
She started to put on the cashmere coat—blue as her eyes—he’d given her for Christmas, but at his head shake, switched to her parka. At least he didn’t quibble about the cashmere scarf she wrapped around her neck.
He helped her shoulder her backpack. “Can you handle it?”
She made a fist, bent her arm at the elbow. “I’m an urbanite who uses the gym. Or used to.”
With it, she picked up her purse, put it on cross-body.
“Lana, you don’t need—”
“I’m leaving my food processor, my Dutch oven, my worn exactly once Louboutin over-the-knee boots, but I’m not leaving without my purse.” Rolling her shoulders to adjust the pack, she gave him a steady, challenging stare. “Doom or no Doom, there are lines, Max. There are lines.”
“Were those the boots you walked into my office wearing—with one of my shirts?”
“Right. That makes worn twice.”
“I’ll miss them as much as you.”
It was good, she thought, good they’d made each other smile before they left their home.
He hefted the bag she’d packed. Opened the door.
“We keep moving,” he told her. “Just keep moving north until we find a truck or an SUV.”
As her smile dropped away, she only nodded.
They moved toward the stairway at the end of the common hall. The door of the last unit opened a crack.
“Don’t go out there.”
“Keep moving,” Max ordered when Lana stopped.
The door opened a little wider. Through the opening, Lana saw the woman she knew casually as Michelle. Worked in advertising, some family money, divorced, active social life.
Now Michelle’s hair, the mad tangles of it, flew around her face as if in a wild wind.
