Survivors in the After

Prologue

Prologue

Twenty years earlier… Slipping in through the side door off Fifth and Forty-Seventh Streets, Marshall McConnell peered around the corner into the darkness, giving his eyes time to adjust. Candles were lit on the tables in the tiny hurricane lamps. The miniature flames flickering shadows on the walls surrounding the diners who had stayed late at the popular restaurant. He unbuttoned his coat, shrugged out of it, and hung it up on the hook outside the booth, where fresh rainwater from the spring drizzle he’d been caught in puddled on the floor. Wearily, he slid into the booth, a mere shadow himself, to mix with those cast by passing cars, the opening of the door to the kitchen, and the subtle movements of the diners. Interlacing his long, thin fingers and setting them in front of him on the table, his blue eyes focused on the front door.

A bus boy, on his way to the alley for a smoke break, walked towards the back booth. His tired smile faded when he realized who had come in. He stopped where he was, all excitement for a nicotine high disappearing. Inclining his head in a show of acknowledgment, he backtracked to the main part of the restaurant, glancing once over his shoulder as he went, as if he thought Marshall might move out of the booth and do some harm before he returned to the safety of the kitchen. Marshall smiled to himself, remembering the days when he was the bus boy’s age, living in the moment, concerned only about the next adventure.

His gaze tracked to the front door and watched as the one he waited for entered. He always knew when his nemesis was close. The air seemed to take on an acrid stench as it thickened and swirled around the restaurant. A table of rather perceptive patrons felt it as they asked for their check mid-meal. Then, not waiting for the bill, threw a handful of cash on the table, donned their coats, and left. If Marshall knew of a better way, he would do the same.

Giorgio, the owner, helped the newcomer out of his coat, shook off the drops of rain, and handed it to a waiting bus boy. Giorgio didn’t need to show the newcomer to the table as the two men had been meeting in this back booth for longer than either could remember. The newcomer smiled and thanked Giorgio, then turned his attention to the darkened booth in the corner where Marshall, who used to be his closest friend, waited.

Damien Preston sauntered to the meeting place. With the new details he learned recently of the research conducted at Noble Laboratories, he finally had what he needed to push his plans forward. He gave himself credit for the idea of k********g the wife and young daughter of a newly hired chemist at Noble, and for their release in exchange for a full report from the chemist on everything being tested. Newspapers printed the tragic story of how the wife and daughter met with an unexpected accident when their car drove into the Hudson River on their return to the house they shared with the chemist. In agony over the loss of his wife and daughter, the chemist hung himself in his living room.

Marshall kept his seat as Damien stood next to the table. In the darkness, he noticed his former friend had gained weight, stretching the buttons of his hand-tailored silk vest across his expanding middle. His gaze continued to travel up the cleanly shaved double chins, to the gold front tooth that winked with Damien’s smile, and finally to the black, beady eye surrounded by puffy flesh. The elastic holding the patch over his other eye sunk slightly into the bald scalp of the man who would help destroy the world.

“Marshall, right on time,” Damien said as he slid his bulk into the booth. He noticed that Marshall’s athletic frame, straight black hair, and attractive face that had garnered him any female on their high school campus hadn’t changed much over the years. Not that Marshall would dabble in his own research, but still, Damien squashed the twinge of jealousy that began to unfurl in his chest.

A waiter approached the table with two wine glasses and a bottle of Chianti. Setting a glass in front of each man, the waiter poured generously, trying to hide the shaking of his hands. He wiped the drop of wine clinging to the lip of the bottle with a linen napkin, bowed, and disappeared back into the main part of the restaurant.

Marshall lifted his glass, waited for Damien to do the same, and then nodded his head in a silent toast. They both sipped, then replaced their glasses on the table in front of them.

“Sorry to hear about the death of your newest chemist, Dr. John Weimer. I guess the loss of his family in that terrible accident was more than he could handle, as I’m sure would be the same with anyone,” Damien said, though a snicker nearly stuck in his throat.

“A tragedy, yes,” Marshall agreed. “Too bad the police believe it to be suicide. We know differently, don’t we Damien.”

Damien shrugged his rounded shoulders, then picked up his glass for another sip.

Marshall refused to hide the decades-old hatred he held for Damien. The friend he once knew, the genius who sat in Advanced Chemistry and Physics with him in high school, was long gone. Marshall thought, not for the first time, if things would be different if he hadn’t saved Damien that night in the train yard.

They’d been sixteen and drunk on their achievement of successfully creating a new polymer that mimicked human nerve cells, even though their professor didn’t think it was possible. The chemical bonds held together during lab experiments that included electrical conductivity. Preliminary results pointed to this material being used for nearly all diseases in which the nerves were affected, essentially allowing paraplegics to walk and stroke victims to regain all their faculties. They had tweaked parts of the formula to target diseases that caused atrophy. If they were successful, an alternate serum could be developed to enhance muscles, and, if Damien had his way, the natural abilities of those who were ‘treated’ with the cocktail. This invention had won them a write-up in the Journal of Science and a free ticket to any university they chose.

They were screwing around in the train yard in celebration, each having taken a hit of Ace Damien had scored from one of the jocks in the locker room, when a train pulled in for repairs. Already feeling invincible, Damien proclaimed they could lie on the tracks and not be hurt by the two hundred ton locomotive engine chugging in on track three. Marshall argued, saying it was stupid to believe he wouldn’t be mangled, as the polymer wasn’t designed to protect the human form from impact, but to reconnect and build tissue inside the body. Damien was determined to show that not only would their invention work to heal the body, but also to stop a train. Literally.

Damien turned and ran towards the tracks. It took Marshall a moment to realize his friend was serious. Perhaps that hit of Ace had pushed Damien over the line to insanity. He sprinted after him. By the time Marshall had rounded the corner of the repair shed, leaping across pieces of rusted rebar and slowing down only to scramble over the pile of railroad ties, Damien was flat out on track three with the train still coming.

Damien had covered himself with a small piece of the material they developed. Marshall gauged the distance between the train and his friend. At a sprint, he headed towards his wicked smart, if sometimes crazy, science partner. He bent down, grabbed Damien’s shirt, leaped over the far rail, and sent them both sprawling into the gravel and dirt that surrounded discarded and rusted pieces of metal and train parts on the darkened side of track three. The engine blew past at thirty miles per hour. Its brakes hissed, and the smell of diesel exhaust filled Marshall’s nostrils. He pushed himself up on all fours, looked around for Damien, and found him lying in an unnatural position. Marshall scrambled over to him on his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his elbow and shoulder. In the shadows, it was difficult to tell, but something wasn’t right about Damien. Marshall rolled him over onto his back and saw the railroad nail protruding from his friend’s left eye.

The genius Damien had been as a young man became overshadowed by his twisted disgust that, without Marshall’s interference, he might have survived his stunt with the train only to lose his eye. An outcome that was unacceptable to Damien, believing he was less of a human with the missing body part. He didn’t speak to Marshall for years after that night. Marshall had sat outside his hospital room, even though Damien refused to allow Marshall in to see him. The time in the hospital sent Damien further into the world of demented self-hatred. Damien never graduated from high school. He didn’t take that free ticket to the university of his choice. Instead, he went underground.

His parents gave up the search for him after ten years. His father died at an early age, reportedly from a heart attack. A broken heart, family and friends believed, for having failed to protect his son from his own arrogance, and his own brilliance. His mother was placed in Cressica Asylum after losing her child and her husband, only to die in an explosion brought on by a leaking gas line. Damien was the sole beneficiary named in the will. He inherited his father’s estate, which included a mansion, three imported Italian sports cars, and the bank accounts and investments totaling close to seventeen million dollars. The prodigal son came out of hiding, claimed his inheritance, and put on the facade of an upstanding citizen of Boston.

That upstanding citizen hadn’t been hanging around on the streets during the ten years he waited for his parents to die. He lived off what he picked out of other’s pockets. Once he was good enough at that, he started running rackets. Pharmaceuticals, street gambling, and extortion were the means by which he earned his alternative education. He took his genius, and instead of using it to help people who were crippled in accidents and suffering from diseases, began experimenting on those who worked for him, creating his own private army in order to operate his considerable illegal entertainments. Damien built a one-of-kind lab in the basement of the estate he inherited and conducted experiments no legal research institution would consider. Certainly not Noble Laboratories, which Marshall owned. Unlike Damien, Noble’s prime purpose was to put back what was taken from people in previously incurable diseases and horrible accidents, pre- or post-birth.

The side project Marshall had been spending an increasing amount of time and effort on was known by few people. Since the death of his newest employee, Marshall figured Damien was now aware of this research. The gleam in Damien’s eye brought Marshall back to the present, and to the trouble he had tried to avoid.

“For years, we’ve been meeting here. We have made contracts, many of which you have broken,” Marshall accused.

“They were not in my best interest as they were, so I simply chose to interpret them how they should’ve been written. Up to now, it has been a stalemate between you and me. That will change. Very soon.”

Marshall picked up his wine and gulped, hoping Damien didn’t recognize he was taking a moment in order to keep his emotions under control. He thumped his glass a little too hard on the table. The wine sloshed over the rim and stained the white tablecloth, much like the blood he knew would stain the streets. Marshall glanced at the spilled wine and couldn’t stop the chill of foreboding that trickled down his spine.

With a narrowed eye at his one-time friend and the unexpected display of upset, Damien gave the truth of how he would use the research. He didn’t believe Marshall posed any threat to his plans. “The information that was so graciously shared with me by our late Dr. Weimer is being applied in a new direction. Not to help some poor bastard who lost the ability to walk due to a construction accident, but what the research was meant for. To make people stronger. Invincible.”

“Damien, you don’t understand what you’re dealing with. Whatever information you ripped from Dr. Weimer can’t just be applied to any patient. There is the psychological factor to consider. Please, if you consider yourself a scientist, you’ll do your own tests. You’ll see that I’m right,” Marshall pleaded.

“What I see is a man who is weary of the battle. A man who is near the end of his reign. This research, all of what you do at Noble Labs, is now mine. Both the private sector and the government will pay well for what we started, and what I will continue to do.”

“I won’t let you ruin this country. You can’t kill hundreds of people and not be punished. You think we’ve been engaged in a battle? If you follow through on this threat, Damien, you will see a war!” Marshall emphasized his anger by pounding his fist onto the table. In that moment, he didn’t realize how his prediction would come true.

Damien smiled, then chuckled, then threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed of the evil that surrounded and permeated its maker. Damien looked again at Marshall, picked up a napkin, and blotted the sweat from his forehead, the tears from his eyes as his laughter died away. He heaved himself out of the booth, put both hands on the table, and leaned over Marshall, who was forced to back away in order to keep eye contact.

“So it begins,” Damien whispered. He turned and strode down the dark red carpet to the now empty main dining room.

Marshall sighed, took out his phone, and pressed one button. “Yes, it’s me. No more contracts.” He closed the phone as he watched Damien put on his coat and stride through the front door, turning right to walk down the street.

Pushing to his feet, Marshall pulled on his coat and followed his enemy out of the restaurant. He turned to look down the deserted street in the direction Damien had taken. He heard the snick of the lock as Giorgio secured the door behind him. A glance over his shoulder showed the red and white ‘closed’ sign swinging on the inside of the glass of Giorgio’s Restaurant.

The streetlights flickered, then went out, one by one, as Damien walked underneath them. Marshall pulled up the collar of his coat against the chill that was left behind by the rain. It didn’t help. He was afraid the cold would be with him for some time.

With another sigh, he followed Damien down the street, his shoes nearly silent on the concrete. Steam rose from the underground tunnels through the rusted metal of the grates. Looking ahead of him, Marshall saw Damien come to a stop. He did as well, stepping quickly into the alcove of a storefront. Several blocks down the street, a pair of headlights aimed in their direction. He watched as the vehicle made a U-turn in the middle of the road, then stopped so Damien could climb into the back passenger seat. When the vehicle again turned around, Marshall pressed himself against the front door of the shop, hoping the shadows would hide him. As the black SUV drove slowly past, he stared at the driver. The man was enormous, as if he were a linebacker for a professional football team. Something seemed wrong with the man’s face, as if he’d been in a fight and lost, which didn’t seem possible based on the size and the ability with which he could still maneuver the SUV. Marshall frowned as he tried to comprehend what Damien had done.

He retrieved his phone from his coat pocket when it vibrated. “Yes. I know. If he has gone this far, we will have to finish it this time. Enough lives have been lost.” Ending the call, he tucked his hands and the phone in his pockets.

As he walked down the street, he didn’t bother to wipe the stray tear that dripped down his cheek. It wasn’t for the imminent death of his oldest friend, because at this point, there was no other option. It wasn’t for the full-scale war that was now inevitable. It was for the loss of what had been an incredible promise of using such genius for the greater good.

The ground shook as the black van pulled up alongside him. The door slid open, and Marshall stepped inside.

Present Day… “Next time, I’ll tell you about the War,” said the old man as he leaned back in the antique wooden rocking chair.

The children, ranging in age from six to eighteen, scattered around him on the only relatively flat piece of ground in this part of the City. He looked into their bright eyes, ensuring each of them understood the background of the two men who brought on the War. It was important that these young ones not forget, or take for granted, the cost of the lives they lived. Many of their parents died in the War, fathers not witnessing the birth of their children, and mothers perishing from disease, violence, or starvation.

In groups of two to four, the young ones picked themselves up and headed off in various directions. The old man watched them go, noticing Leah took the hand of Alejandro on one side, and her youngest brother, Joshua, on the other. Sara and Tristan shuffled off in another direction, debating what eventually happened to the two friends who turned enemies. Lauren and Eve, the twins, walked away, their heads tilted towards one another in their own silent conversation. The O’Ryan brothers ran and jumped down the street, lightly punching each other, as boys are wont to do. He watched the children return to their guardians, or wherever they slept at night, until he could no longer see any of them in the gathering darkness.

Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, he hoisted himself up onto legs that had fallen asleep. Not used to sitting so much, he thought. He turned in the direction of one part of the City that had sporadic electricity and tugged up his collar against the autumn breeze. Sighing, he tucked his hands in his pockets and picked his way over the remains of the once grand New York Public Library, now in ruin as a result of the War. Those who survived hoped never to witness again the fire that rained from the sky. He understood the fighting wasn’t over. Oh, this next battle would be very different, but their survival, and any quality of life, depended on the right people playing their part. He walked towards the buildings whose periodically lit windows glowed like beacons, picking his way over twisted, rusted steel and jumbled piles of cement.

A half a block behind him, he was aware of a dusty black trench coat that billowed in the breeze, as a young man stood on the remains of the fire escape on an ancient building, watching him walk away. After dropping to the street below, adjusting weapons and ensuring he wasn’t being observed, he followed the old man as he wound his way through the rubble. It was likely that the younger man wasn’t sure where the old man went after these meetings with the children, and the old man wondered if perhaps Leo had sent this soldier to find out.

The old man paused and glanced up at the quickly darkening sky. Curfew approached. It could be dangerous for some to be out on the streets, but not if one had weapons and enhancements. He was aware of who followed him and felt the introduction was past due. One side of his mouth curved up in a half-smile. Yes, those involved would play their part, as a future of freedom was at a tipping point.