Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(21)

“But even once we—” She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut when he whipped around a flipped-over truck.

“Slow them down,” he snapped.

“I don’t—”

“Do what you did before, but less. Slow them down.”

With her heart banging in her throat, she held up a hand, tried to imagine pushing the car back, just pushing it backward.

She saw it fishtail, then miraculously slow. How is this happening? she thought. A few weeks ago she could barely light a candle, and now … now she was the one burning with light.

“Keep it up. Just hold it. We only need a couple minutes.”

“I’m afraid if I … It could be like the motorcycle. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Just hold steady, there’s the bridge. And fuck me! They’ve lifted the span. I didn’t think of it. I should’ve thought of it.”

Losing her focus, she turned and saw the span of the lift bridge raised high. And the gap between it and the road.

“We have to turn off!”

“No. We have to lower it.” He gripped her hand again. “Together. We can do it together. Focus, Lana, you know how. Focus on bringing it down, or we’re done.”

He thought too much of her abilities, of her spine. But his hand held tight to hers, and she felt his power vibrate. Whatever she had, she pushed toward him.

She trembled from the effort, felt everything inside her shift and … expand. And with a jolt, like blowing on a candle, the span began to lower.

“It’s working. But—”

“Stay focused. We’re going to make it.”

But they were going too fast, and the span was lowering so slowly. Behind them, sirens screamed.

Together, she thought. Live or die. Closing her eyes, she pushed harder.

She heard a thud, felt the car jump and shake.

“Lift it!” Max shouted.

Through the buzzing in her ears, the buzzing through her body, she pushed again. Opened her eyes. For a moment, she thought they were flying.

She whipped around, saw the span lifting, foot by foot behind them. The pursuing car screeched to a stop at the far edge.

“Max. Where is this coming from? How can we do these things? This power, this kind of power, it’s terrifying and…”

“Exhilarating? A shift of balance, an opening. I don’t know, but can’t you feel it?”

“Yes. Yes.” An opening, she thought, and so much more.

“We got out,” Max reassured her. He brought her hand to his lips, but didn’t slow down as they zoomed over the tracks. “We’ll find a way over. Get some water out of the pack, take some deep breaths. You’re shaky.”

“People … people are trying to kill us.”

“We won’t let them.” When he turned his head to look at her, his eyes burned dark gray and fierce. “We’ve got a long way to go, Lana, but we’re going to make it.”

She let her head fall back against the headrest, closed her eyes to try to steady her pulse, to clear the fear haze from her mind.

“It’s so strange,” she murmured. “All the time I’ve lived in New York, this is the first time I’ve been to the Bronx.”

His laugh surprised her as it rolled out, so rich, so easy. “Well, it’s a hell of a first trip.”





CHAPTER FIVE

Jonah Vorhies wandered the chaos of the ER. People still streamed or stumbled in, as if the building itself offered miracles. They came in hacking and puking, bleeding and dying. Most from the Doom, some from the Doom’s by-product of violence.

GSWs, knife wounds, broken bones, head injuries.

Some sat quietly, hopelessly, like the man with the boy of about seven in his lap. Or the woman with glassy, feverish eyes praying with a rosary. Death spread so thick in them, so black, he knew they wouldn’t last the day.

Others raged, screaming, demanding, spittle flying out of snarling mouths. He thought it a shame their last act in life would be one of such ugliness.

Fights broke out regularly, but rarely lasted long. The virus so destroyed the body that even a world champ would drop after giving or receiving a couple of punches.

The medical staff, what was left of them, did what they could. There were beds available, he knew. Oh, there were plenty of beds, open ORs, treatment rooms. But not enough doctors, nurses, interns, orderlies to treat and stitch and staunch.

No beds in the morgue—he knew that, too. No vacancies there, and bodies piled up like grim Lincoln Logs.

Most of the medical staff? Dead or fled. Patti, his partner of four years. Patti, the mother of two who’d loved head-banging rock, horror movies (the grislier the better), and Mexican food—don’t spare the Tabasco—had fled, kids in tow, to Florida during week two. She’d fled because her father—avid golfer living the good life in Tampa—had died, and her mother—retired teacher, literacy volunteer, ardent knitter—was dying.

He’d seen the Doom in Patti, along with her fear, her grief, when she’d said good-bye. He’d known he’d never see her again.

Her, or the cute nurse who’d liked scrubs with kittens or puppies on them. The gum-snapping orderly, the eager intern who hoped to be a surgeon, and dozens, dozens more.

They dropped like flies, some at home, some struggling to work. He’d brought in a few himself—by himself now. Like the hospital staff, paramedics, EMTs, firefighters, cops had all seen their ranks decimated.