“I can sail,” said Lilly. The others looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “I did a Henri Lloyd shoot, and the guy who owned the boat wanted to show off.”
Cynthia stood up and turned to the cabin stairs. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there, or when we’re boarded by mutant pirates. Whichever comes first.” She disappeared belowdecks, and the others looked at each other.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Mexico, nodding toward his rifle. “If we get boarded by mutants I want to see them coming.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Blauwitz. “Everyone else in a boat is doing the same thing we are: running as far as they can. Let’s just hope we’re all running in different directions.”
Lyle followed Lilly to the helm, where she poked around the controls a bit to familiarize herself. The yacht had a sail, currently stowed, plus an onboard prop and a GPS. She fired up the motor and Lyle looked outside nervously, scanning the darkness for any trouble the sudden noise might have attracted, but there was nobody around them in any direction.
“We won’t need the sails,” said Lilly. “It’s easier this way.” Outside, the delegates huddled together for warmth, watching for trouble, and when the general came in to take the first turn at the helm Lyle and Lilly did the same, wrapping their blanket around both their shoulders to maximize their body heat. Lyle smiled apologetically.
“This isn’t normally how I treat the company secretaries.”
“Shut up and put your arm around me,” said Lilly, pressing closer. “I’d rather be warm than politically correct.”
Lyle pulled her tightly against his side, and they watched the dying city slide by through the windows. “This isn’t how I thought it would end.”
“Who said it’s over?”
“Observational evidence,” said Lyle, but paused and shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be such a pessimist. The world isn’t over ’til we give up on it.”
“Just so you know,” said Lilly, “you’re not the kind of world-destroying mad scientist I was expecting when they told me you were coming to the UN.”
“It’s never the ones you expect,” said Lyle. “Scientists are like serial killers that way.” He pursed his lips. “Sorry, that was a really bad joke.”
Lilly watched the city quietly for a moment, then spoke again. “Do you feel responsible?”
Lyle frowned. “Of course I feel bad—”
“I didn’t ask if you felt bad, I asked if you felt responsible.”
“That’s a very tricky question.”
“That’s the best kind.”
Lyle tried to answer, but couldn’t think of anything to say.
The boat moved south past Jersey City, curved around the Battery, then trekked up past Brooklyn, past the bridges, past the burning remains of the United Nations. Lilly fell asleep on his shoulder, and Lyle watched quietly as his life slid away in the darkness: Roosevelt Island, Rikers Island, his home in Flushing, all the landmarks of who he was and where he came from and what he thought he meant. All the things that had stood in place of meaning. The boat left the river and turned north into the wider bays, passed the parks and promontories that loomed up on either side before fading away into nothing. The next time he looked up he found the general under his arm and Lilly steering the ship. It took him a few minutes to shake off the impression that each one had transformed into the other.
The boat was slowing, bobbing more noticeably in the water, which is probably what woke him up. “How long was I asleep?”
“Just a few hours,” said Lilly, and pointed ahead. “I think this is it.”
“Is this where the GPS said to go?”
“Yes,” said Lilly, “but it just went crazy.”
“Then this is it,” said Lyle. “The government doesn’t like satellites looking at its secret labs.” He shook the general awake, and together they walked to the window to look out at the complex before them. Plum Island had a small dock, with prominent signs and buoys restricting public access. As they drew closer a voice on a megaphone told them sternly to clear the area, and General Blauwitz argued for nearly ten minutes in his attempt to pull rank. Even then, the argument only ended with Blauwitz calling their bluff and steering the boat toward the dock. The guard didn’t shoot, but he greeted them with a loaded rifle.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“There’s a lot of things that shouldn’t be,” said Blauwitz. “We have a wounded man and three UN delegates; I outrank everybody on this island and I’m commandeering it as a safe haven.”
“This is a research lab specializing in contagious plagues,” the soldier insisted. “You are bringing contaminants into a clean facility, and you risk taking even worse ones with you.”
“Then tell us what we can’t touch,” said the general, “and we won’t.”
“The entire island.”
“Redefine your bubble of personal space,” said Blauwitz, stepping out onto the dock. “We’re staying, and you’re under my command now. Dr. Fontanelle, tie up the boat while the sergeant here shows us to our rooms.”
The soldier continued to protest, but Blauwitz could not be swayed, and Cynthia, once she entered the argument, was a force of terrifying will the guard was completely unprepared to deal with. The group of refugees followed him into one of the buildings, Samoa carrying the assistant with the broken ankle, and they huddled around the space heater while the soldier called his superiors.
“You have a working phone line?” asked Cynthia. “Call Washington immediately.”
“I’m calling the other side of the island,” said the soldier. “We haven’t been able to reach anybody outside in hours.” Whomever he was calling must have picked up, for he turned his attention abruptly back to the phone and spent the next several minutes nodding and saying “I told them that” over and over. Finally Blauwitz wrenched the phone from his hand, yelled into it for a minute, and hung up.
“They’re coming to pick us up. This is just the dock; the main facility’s a few minutes away. You’re going to get in trouble,” said the guard. “I’m going to get in trouble.”
“If there’s anyone left to get us in trouble it will be the best news we’ve had in days,” said Lyle.
A pair of headlights flashed in the window, followed almost immediately by a second pair. The first driver stayed in his truck, the motor running to keep warm, but the second, a woman with a heavy parka and a thick wool hat, ran through the cold to the guardhouse.
“You’re the ones, huh?” She looked at the sick assistant, wrapped in a blanket but obviously suffering. “He needs a doctor.”
General Blauwitz stood and shook her hand. “I assume you have doctors?”
“Plenty,” she said, “but no physicians, and no real medical treatment facilities.”
