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my mom’s cousin
and Ricky was a cop. They were my salvation, the best mom and dad
in the universe. I went back to high school, graduated with honors,
and with Rick’s help, became one of the best cops in New York. As
far as foster kids go, I was one of the lucky ones.
    #
    I grunt. My ten years on the force prepared me for
all kinds of situations, but tight spaces have always unnerved me.
I pull my necklace out of my uniform vest. It’s a half dollar sized
wooden circle with engraved Japanese kanji writing, peace and
love through truth and strength . Ricky and Beth had given it to
me for graduation from the academy. I rub the necklace between
finger and thumb to feed off its calming effect.
    My mind still needs to work out this problem. I’m
trapped in my cruiser as it sits upside down on two or more
vehicles. I try to kick the door with controlled leg thrusts, but
it’s crumpled, making it inoperable. I will need the Jaws of Life.
With my boot, I test the metal frame that is bent over the smashed
windshield. It won’t budge. I can’t squeeze through any opening or
force any of the metal to budge. I sweep out the glass on the
ceiling so I can get more comfortable.
    I hear a moan from a car below me. I turn and listen.
“Hello! I’m here!” I yell.
    “I. . .I’m hurt,” sobs a woman. She’s in the car
under me. Her voice is weak.
    “You’re gonna be okay,” I say. “Stay awake. Keep
talking. What’s your name?”
    “Jan. . .ice,” the woman says through her crying. She
screams, “I’m bleeding! Oh God, what is happening to me!”
    “Stay with me Janice! Help is on the way,” I lie.
    There is no reply.
    “Janice!” She is gone. I kick the ceiling. Tears
flood out of me. I’m so scared right now. I try not to think about
how long it will take for help to show up. It might take days. I’m
locked in a prison of smashed and useless cars. People all around
me are yelling and screaming and no one is checking on the
overturned police car on the Queensboro Bridge onramp.
    Hours go by. No one comes. Why? Nothing is making
sense to me.
    I like to think I’m as tough as they come, but I’m
not. I sit with my eyes closed and try to think of other things,
but I can’t seem to relax. I’m shaking. My blood sugar has crashed.
Maybe if I try to eat. I reach for my glove compartment. I have
granola bars in there. Instead of my bars falling out, a red box
falls. I open it. Inside is a red syringe and a note:
    ‘ Use or die. The New World thanks you. Your
service was indispensable.’
    ~Zilla.

     
     
     

Chapter 1.4
Markus Coburn:
Seven years before the Extinction Event
     
     
     
     
    I lock the door to
my church and stagger down the steps to the sidewalk. The sun is so
bright it hurts my eyes. Jordan, my secretary, is staring at me.
She’s botherin’ me. I know she cares, maybe too much. I look at
her. “It’s fine, J,” I say.
    “We don’t have to cancel Wednesday service
yet. We get the word out to the neighborhood on Sunday, go door to
door again,” she offers, tryin’ to act cheery.
    “I can’t pay you. We have no volunteers and
Regional has cut our stipend again.” I follow the sidewalk to the
street then stop and look at Jordan. “I don’t like preachin’ to
empty pews.” I shrug. “I failed.”
    “Mrs. Clarady is there. And old man Rinald.”
Jordan’s a young and proud black woman, always wearin’ fashionable
pantsuits to church like she’s a lawyer. Good lookin’, but
naive.
    I chuckle weakly and shake my head, “See you
on Sunday.” I start walking home. I take a detour, hoping to get a
muffin at a nearby bakery. I cross the street without looking for
traffic. A car hits its breaks and blares the horn, but it doesn’t
faze me. I haven’t been feeling too good lately. My church sits
empty. Thugs run my neighborhood. I don’t feel God in my life
anymore. Does He even exist, or am I just a stupid old man?
Everywhere I look there’s misery. Even in my own pews there