Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(20)

Lana jolted when the side mirror exploded from a bullet, and the SUV bumped hard over the curb, banged back. It kissed the side of another wrecked car before Max floored it.

They streaked down the street with the motorcycle in pursuit.

Max didn’t slow when they came to more wrecks, more abandoned cars, but threaded through them at a dangerous speed. Sparks flew when he veered close enough for metal to skim against metal.

She risked a look behind. “I think they’re gaining. My Jesus, Max, the girl—that same girl—she has a gun. She’s—”

Bullets singed the air. She heard glass breaking.

“Taillight,” he said grimly, cut the corner at Fiftieth Street and had the SUV rocking, pushed east. “I might have to slow to get across town, Lana, to get through abandoned cars. He’s got more maneuverability. Do what you did back on the street.”

In full panic, she pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “I don’t know what I did. I was terrified.”

He spun the wheel, spun it back, bumped over an already flattened messenger bike. “Scared now? Knock them back, Lana. Knock them back or I don’t know if we’ll make it.”

A bullet hit the rear window, shattering glass. Lana threw out her hand. Threw her fear with it.

The front wheel of the bike shot straight up; the rear lifted. As it began to flip, the girl flew off. Lana heard her screaming before she slammed onto the hood of a car. The man held on, fighting for control. But the motorcycle tumbled, flipped, and then both it and its driver skidded and rolled over the street.

“God, I killed them! Did I kill them?”

“You saved us.”

He slowed a little, weaving across town. He had to take a jog north at Broadway as a clog of wrecked cars blocked the east-side route. Behind them, Times Square, once a crowded, chaotic world of its own, stood silent as a grave.

He slowed at every intersection, checking to see if the way held clear. Turned east.

How many times, Lana wondered, how many times had she taken a cab or the subway to Midtown to shop or have lunch or go to the theater?

A sale at Barneys, a hunt through the shoe paradise of Saks’s eighth floor. A stroll in Central Park with Max.

Over now, only memories now.

Of the few signs of life she did see, people moved furtively, not with that brisk, I’ve-got-places-to-go New York pace. No tourists with their heads tipped back marveling at skyscrapers.

Smashed windows, overturned trash cans, broken streetlights, a dog, so thin its ribs showed, hunting for food. Would he go feral, she wondered, hunt for human flesh?

“I don’t know the population of New York.”

“It was closing in on nine million,” Max told her.

“We’ve come nearly fifty blocks, and I haven’t seen fifty people. Not even one person a block.” She took a breath, tried to steady herself. “I didn’t believe you when you said they weren’t reporting all the dead. I do now. Why did that girl want us dead, Max? Why did they come after us that way, try to kill us?”

“Let me get us out of the city first.”

He turned onto Park. The wide avenue gave them no clearer path, only provided more room for more cars. She imagined the panic that had caused the pileups, the rage that had overturned buses, cars, the fear that had boarded up windows, even six and seven stories above the streets and sidewalks.

A corner food cart on its side was picked to the bone. A limo burned out to a husk still smoked. Abandoned cranes rose and swayed like giant skeletons. Max threaded through it all, hands tight on the wheel, eyes tracking.

“A little clearer now,” he said. “Most would’ve headed for the tunnels, the bridges, even after they put up barricades.”

“It’s still beautiful.” Lana’s throat tightened on the words. “The old brownstones, the mansions.”

Even with doors ripped off hinges, windows shattered, the beauty held stubbornly on.

Eyes scanning, Max drove quickly down the wide, once gracious avenue. “It’ll come back,” he said. “Humans are too stubborn not to rebuild, not to resettle a city like New York.”

“Are we human?”

“Of course we are.” To comfort both of them, he covered her hand with his. “Don’t let the fear and suspicion of the brutal and ignorant make you doubt yourself. We’ll get out of Manhattan, and then we’ll head north, north and west, until we find a clear way over the river. The farther away from urban areas, the better the chances.”

When she only nodded, he squeezed her hand. “If we can’t find a way over, we’ll find somewhere safe to settle in until spring. Trust me, Lana.”

“I do.”

“Less than twenty blocks now before the bridge.” He flicked a glance at the rearview, frowned. “There’s a car moving back there, coming up fast.”

In response, Max increased their speed.

Swiveling, Lana looked back. “I think it’s the police. The lights—and now sirens. It’s the police, Max, you should pull over.”

Instead, he gunned it. “Old rules don’t apply anymore. Some cops are rounding up people like us.”

“No. I haven’t heard any reports of that. Max! You’re driving too fast.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I’ve talked to others like us, and we’re being rounded up when they can find us. That girl’s not the only one blaming us. We’re nearly there.”