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An unspoken fear loomed over all of us. I hadn’t lived in New York in 2001, but I’d seen the events unfold on the news like everyone else. Holden would have been dead-to-the-world asleep, just like me, but Desmond…he would probably remember the day the Towers fell. He’d grown up in Long Island City. If he’d been at home, the view across the river would have let him see everything.
We sat in silence for the remainder of the flight, all fearing a new worst-case scenario we’d never imagined before. I had been so busy worrying about my own problems, I sometimes forgot the world at large had troubles that put mine to shame. I looked out the window, but we were too far inland for me to see the city.
The pilot must have called ahead and sent instructions to the other airport, because when we landed, a car was parked on the tarmac waiting. It was almost as tight a fit as my BMW, but all four of us managed to get in.
No one spoke.
We were about fifty miles from New York, and the whole drive in I didn’t see a single car going the same direction as us. There were literally hundreds going the opposite way.
It was like the opening scene of a zombie movie.
Are zombies legit?
Hadn’t that been Nolan’s question?
But zombies weren’t real. Keaty and I, in all our years of research and hunting, had never come across a case of an honest-to-God zombie. He’d apparently encountered a man in Peru once who was a necromancer, but the ability to raise the dead and control it was not the same as a naturally occurring zombie plague. If a necromancer made the undead bite you, it would hurt, but you wouldn’t become a zombie.
Vampires were the only ones who could create the walking dead in that way.
“This looks bad,” Eugenia observed.
We watched the standstill traffic as we sped by in the opposite direction.
It wasn’t until we approached the Lincoln Tunnel entrance that I realized what seemed so strange. The sky was brightly lit, but every single light was out. Going through the tunnel was an eerie and downright frightening experience with no lights to guide us except the headlights on the car.
When we emerged into the city proper, I slammed on the brakes, sending us all lurching forward.
An abandoned police barricade blocked the road.
The city streets were completely dark. It reminded me of the blackout from several years before.
Sirens wailed, and more headlights moved towards the exit, but none of the buildings or streetlamps were lit.
I opened my car door.
“Secret, no,” Eugenia pleaded.
The familiar smell of smoke tickled my nose, and I looked up. If the lights were out, why was the sky so bright?
Desmond got out of the passenger door, his nostrils flaring as he got a whiff of the smell.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
I saw the flicker of orange glimmering off the side of a skyscraper, waving like the arms of a madman.
New York City was burning.
About the Author
Sierra Dean is a reformed historian. She was born and raised in the Canadian prairies and is allowed annual exit visas in order to continue her quest of steadily conquering the world one city at a time. Making the best of the cold Canadian winters, Sierra indulges in her less global interests: drinking too much tea and writing urban fantasy.
Ever since she was a young girl she has loved the idea of the supernatural coexisting with the mundane. As an adult, however, the idea evolved from the notion of fairies in flower beds, to imagining that the rugged-looking guy at the garage might secretly be a werewolf. She has used her overactive imagination to create her own version of the world, where vampire, werewolves, fairies, gods and monsters all walk among us, and she’ll continue to travel as much as possible until she finds it for real.
Sierra can be reached all over the place, as she’s a little addicted to social networking. Find her on:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/sierradeanbooks
Website: www.sierradean.com
