Preview of Chapter 2

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Chapter 2. By Any Route Necessary

Dustin headed toward downtown, moving against the last thin ribbon of people still drifting north. By the time he reached the high 50s, most of midtown Manhattan had already emptied itself. People had either taken shelter inside buildings, gotten out of a likely target area, or even left the island altogether. Between 59th Street and roughly 55th on Seventh Avenue, only a scattering of individuals moved north.

A few blocks later, even those remnants disappeared.

Midtown south of 55th was hollowed out. Buildings stood lit but lifeless. Storefronts were closed. The air carried a faint metallic smell that would grow stronger the farther he ran.

By the time Dustin approached Times Square, the city had gone silent. Utterly silent, utterly empty. 

Times Square is never quiet, not at 3 a.m., not during a blackout, not even during a blizzard. But on this morning it held not a single person. No tourists. No commuters. No naked cowboy. No hot dog vendor. No one.

The urban canyon towered above him on all sides. The massive billboard screens overhead still flashed their neon loops, indifferent to what had happened downtown. A fifty-foot-tall Britney Spears tore off her jumpsuit beside an equally oversized Pepsi bottle, revealing skintight blue jeans underneath as her choreographed poses looped silently in the void. The Britney song was on indeed—but in silence; the sound was gone. The colors spilled across empty pavement. The world’s loudest intersection had been reduced to a silent, blinking heart with a fading pulse.

Dustin kept running, his footfalls the only noise.

He passed the W Hotel and the sleek whiskey bar where he and friends sometimes ended their weeknights sipping bourbon served by Cindy Crawford's test models in silver-gray bodysuits. The last few bottles of Stagg they enjoyed there were slowly disappearing, yielding to a rebranding effort. 

Every business was shuttered. Every doorway empty.

All of Manhattan seemed to be holding its breath.

Today, Dustin wouldn’t need a single map check. Sure, he'd been good at land nav in school but as a Bronx-born New Yorker, this was a home course. His advantage today wasn’t speed—it was re-routing. 

During major emergencies, the NYPD seals Manhattan with east–west barricades. The island’s shape gives them enormous leverage: close a few major cross streets and 99.9% of southbound movement stops. But Manhattan was porous to Dustin. He was trained in urban warfare or Military Operations in Urbanized Terrain (MOUT). 

Every New York block contained dozens of side entrances, alleys, pass-throughs, doorways and fire escapes. Underground, the city was even friendlier—miles of interlinked tunnels and pedestrian connections. When the police locked down the surface, he saw Swiss cheese.

He chose Times Square Station as his breach point. Normally, ten subway lines ran in three directions. 

Today, northbound trains would still be running to evacuate people. Even if southbound service was halted, the gates should be open, and he could slip into maintenance walkways, move along the tunnels, and surface through an evacuation stairwell. Engineers placed those stairwells at predictable intervals; he didn’t need to know every location—just the logic.

If the subway tunnels didn’t work, he could shift west to the abandoned Ninth or Tenth Avenue line. It was over there somewhere. It would smell, rats would be there, homeless camps too—but darkness was not a problem. Rangers were comfortable in zero light. Put Dustin blindfolded inside a stranger’s house and he could move almost as efficiently as they could.

And if the tunnels didn’t work, dozens of office buildings offered full-block lobbies with rear exits onto 33rd Street. Maintain an official bearing, get the ID face-match vetted by a doorman, show the ring, and through you go for certain on this particular day. New York doormen were a social class to themselves and probably better at reading people instantly than almost any other group in Manhattan. A good doorman protected the city and his neighborhood every day. Common sense and discretion—the doormen certainly helped hold the line for NYPD, but they’d also support someone moving in to help.​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Once verified, most doormen would probably even guide him to 33rd personally with a bottle of water and a rag to filter the worsening air. They knew the score.

Dustin was a lifetime boater, but his boat was all thy way up in Stamford -- no path there at all. Trying to go by water would increase not reduce the problem set.  He focused back in on realistic options.

If the building cut throughs didn’t work maybe he’d work north again to Clinton Park Stables and grab a horse. Dustin had regularly rode back and forth across the west side avenues to Central Park. Riding on horseback conveyed an inherent sense of authority. That presence most clear when accomplishing the impossible--an upraised arm easily holding snarly NYC traffic back from moving on a green light while the other riders finished crossing.  He didn't enjoy riding on pavement to and from Central Park even at an walk. One startled horse could lead to irrecoverable consequences. Today, he'd take the chance and a horse was just another way to get through the lines to downtown. Dustin rode a little bit at the Academy. He volunteered with the National Horse Show in Madison Square Garden. He knew that especially on a day like today someone would be there in the stables, taking care of the horses. The herd would know something big was wrong. The head groom would be there ready to free them all if the neighborhood got attacked. If it came down to it his presence would give them at least some chance to survive.

Getting downtown today meant there would be problems along the way. He expected them. However, one failed path simply meant: Thank you, next.  Giddy up!

Near the center of an empty Times Square, Dustin finally heard another sound echoing in the empty urban canyon around him—a vehicle was rolling up behind him.