In the morning, Curvy was dead, and Ken had returned from a pre-dawn expedition to the dive shop with a couple of the boys, lugging an oxygen tank, which is way more fortitude than I had expected of a second-rate wannabe war correspondent.
By the dive shop cash register, the boys had found pouches of syrupy sport drink, and in the employee fridge a couple soft red apples and some packets of salad dressing. As I dipped my coffee mug into a plastic bin of rainwater, the boys corralled the littles into three groups and divvied up the apples, slicing them thin and drizzling salad dressing over each slice. My eyes welled up hot.
Ken walked into the kitchen, eyes on his cell phone, swiping through photos. He wore a white undershirt and a pair of black biking shorts.
“Got what you need?” I didn’t ask to see. Didn’t want to know what we wraiths looked like through his lens.
He nodded. “I better get going.”
“Come downstairs first.”
We pushed past the insulation and down the rickety steps to the bakery. I didn’t bother putting the insulation back. My Blodgett double-deck ovens would never run again.
I switched the generator off. The refrigerators clicked and fell silent. I had maybe twenty gallons of gas left. There might still be a use for that before the end.
I pulled a small plate off a shelf. It held two chocolate chip cookies on a sheet of baking paper.
“Put these in that double Ziplock bag of yours,” I said.
He put his palm against my hand. “You should eat them.”
“They aren’t for you. They are for your editor. Tell him, these are the last two chocolate chip cookies in Manhattan. He’ll believe you.”
The building shuddered with a booming sound. Dust sifted through the dim air.
“A missile,” I said. “That was south of Central Park.”
“A missile. Not a bomb.”
“You’re learning. Now get the hell out of here. You able to find your way back to where you stashed your gear?”
He rolled the cookies in his dress shirt, slipped them into the Ziplock, and slid it into his messenger bag. “I left my dive suit at the Whitney, under the handicap access ramp. I had been there before on...”
“On a field trip. Okay, socialist war reporter, go. You got work to do.”
He stuck out his hand. “Thanks for the interview. I’m sure we’ll...”
“No we won’t. Goodbye, Ken.” I shook his hand. His grip crushed my fingers together. It hurt.
It fucking hurt like hell.
Add comment