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would have come after her, giving Rick more time to make his escape.
    And he was definitely running, regardless of what he said. She was certain he had disabled the van’s tracker. He certainly didn’t want anyone witnessing his early morning departure with the hospital’s van.
    She was about to ask him about his choice of survival supplies when the garage door clanged to a stop and the van lurched left onto 29th Street. She strained to see past the headlights, but it was like looking into a cave. Smoke from all the fires blocked any moonlight that might have illuminated the smoldering city. Rick turned right on First Avenue, heading north. She knew both the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels were impassable. The Brooklyn Bridge was too undependable because of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. She’d heard the BQE compared to a rat maze more than once. The highway ran below street level in places, like a bob-sled run. Drivers caught down there were sitting ducks for an attack.
    They would have to take Broadway all the way up to the north end and cross at the George Washington Bridge.
    A few stubborn flames flickered in the burned-out hull of a building. Cars and trucks bulldozed to the sides of the street made it look more like an automobile scrap yard than Manhattan. A chair from a sidewalk café poked out of the windshield of a cab. Part of a riot? Farther down, a delivery truck stuck halfway out of a furniture store’s picture window. Embers glowed inside the massive showroom and Taeya could see that the store was gutted. She thought she saw someone scurry into the shadows.
    Mixed in with the tumble of vehicles in the street was debris from collapsed buildings. At intersections, mounds of concrete and steel had been pushed aside, like snowbanks. How would this ever get cleaned up? Was Manhattan even worth saving?
    Once she was on her own, she’d have to avoid major cities. Between uncontrollable fires, explosions from gas mains, and maniac looters, all urban areas surely looked like this.
    Rick sat hunched over the wheel, pouting.
    “What did you do to the security guard?” she asked.
    His annoyance came as a sigh. “Roger Masterson was on duty tonight. And if you had done your homework, like I did, you would know that ole’ Rog has a jones for Vicodin. I left half a bottle in the bathroom across from the security desk, with a few Halcyon thrown in for good measure. He was zoned out nicely when I saw him at 12:30. I figure he’ll be in la-la-land for at least three hours.”
    She ignored his reference to her last-minute decision to leave. There were more important questions on her mind. Like why Rick was still going to D.C. if he planned to take the van and run?
    “Look at this shit,” he said. “It’s all gone. The Village. Tribeca. The huge loft I couldn’t afford. Moshe’s falafel stand on forty-sixth. The New York City Library. I think that’s when the fire department gave up. So many of their guys died.”
    Why was he suddenly so chatty?
    “And you know what’s really tragic?” he continued. “Most of this was done by good old Americans. Why is it people aren’t content to just steal a TV? They have to set the store on fire, too?”
    “You ought to understand the barbarian mentality,” she quipped. “It isn’t enough to take control. Conquerors rape and pillage. They aren’t satisfied until the whole village is burned to the ground.”
    “You think I’m a barbarian?”
    “I think you’re a looter, just like those people who stole the TVs.” Taeya crossed her legs and leaned on her armrest. “So tell me, did you set the gourmet shop on fire after you took the case of caviar?”
    Oh, yes. She’d taken a peek under his tarpaulin while she loaded her MREs in the back. He had cases of escargot in garlic butter, marinated artichoke hearts, and who knew what else?
    “That’s not my shit,” he said. “I’ve been rounding all that crap up for the last two days. Orders from the top. Half was for