The Phenomenon Read online

  He put his phone in his breast pocket, stood up, and ran out the door and down the hall, his jacket, mug, and phone charger left behind. The pre-dawn air of the Bay Area was cool, humid, and deceptively still. Dr. Walthers moved at a light jog across the quad, his footsteps leaving streaks of grass darker as he disturbed the dew from their blades. He wanted to get to the library as quickly as possible but resisted breaking out into an all-out run as even at this hour there were still students out and about. Some came from the sciences, doing late night experiments, while others were coming to or from the library to which he was headed, though they were concerned with their studies rather than survival. He wondered what kind of catastrophe was in the works. He hoped it wasn't nuclear or some kind of solar event. A simple terrorist attack would be a blessing in this context, his activation a simple precaution quickly recalled. With the baby on the way, the prospect of several decades in complete isolation from the world wasn't an attractive prospect. His phone made another, shriller, screeching tone, as did the phones of half a dozen students on the quad. All of them looked at each other as they pulled out their respective devices and read the warning there. He pulled his own out, and read the warning, noting the time: 12:55am.

  Dr. Walthers looked around. He counted twenty students within his view. Most stopped walking, their eyes locked to their phones. Some were starting to seem quite agitated while others gestured and laughed, looking around for cameras. He felt a sudden surge of anger rise from his gut.

  "Hey! This isn't a joke. Get yourselves over to C Building! NOW!"

  One of the students whom Walthers recognized as one of his own from last year — Karen something or another — shouted back, "C Building? The Culinary Arts Building?"

  "Yes! Go! Stay away from the windows like it says! Get everyone you can along the way but don't wait around!"

  Dr. Walthers saw the bemused and dubious look on their faces, and saw how most of them stood where they were mulling it over. He didn't have time to argue with them. He had to save as many as he could and sitting in one place wouldn't do that. He continued on his way as the students started making their way to Building C in the opposite direction. As he reached the other side of the Quad he rounded the corner of the Applied Sciences building, and the library came into view. Built in the mid-80s, the building itself was only slightly dated by its angled columns and large windows. He could see a number of students still inside, all of them likely oblivious of the eminent danger as it was policy for students to turn their phones off in the library. He could see rows upon rows of books, a few tables and computer kiosks... and his wife. He'd recognize her form anywhere, even backlit by the library lights and all the details of her gone, he recognized her. Her pregnant belly nearly touching the shelves each time she had to reach up to shelve a book from her cart. His careful jog broke into a flat run.

  Exploding through the library doors, he threw aside all pretense of decorum and shouted for his wife, ignoring the glares and strange looks of the students there on all night study sessions.

  "Evelyn! Evelyn we need to go!"

  Her angelic face peeked over the bannister to the floor above as she hissed her reply.

  "Henry! What the heck are you doing? You know this is..."

  He didn't let her finish her admonishment.

  "Evelyn, something's happening, I don't know what but there's an Emergency Alert out to find shelter and I've been activated. We have to go now!"

  She reacted quite as one would expect. With a gasp, she started moving towards the stairs, holding her belly with one hand. As she moved she called out for the students to follow. Dr. Walthers had never kept any secrets from his wife, including the Project, and many nights had been spent in "what if" sessions where they'd ultimately come to the decision that if he were ever activated, they'd try and save as many students as they could, even though his orders were to shelter himself only. He'd known from the day he got those orders that he'd never leave his wife or any other innocent person behind if he had any choice in the matter.

  It only took a few students turning their phones back on and receiving the EAS to convince every student in the library of the urgency of their plight. A few, of course, chose to shelter there, in the center of the building, where the administrative offices were rather than risk crossing campus, and a yet a few more decided to risk trying to make the dorms or their apartments in the city, but most, some twenty-two students, chose to come with the Walthers as they promised a safe haven. Of those, several had cars, and it was figured quickly that they could drive everyone present across campus quicker than they could walk or run. A rapid scramble to the parking lot on the other side of the library from the quad, a quick drive, and Walthers found himself standing in the hall of the Culinary Arts building alongside the twenty-two students and his wife. He led them through the building, past classrooms and kitchens, to the large refrigerators and freezers that held the various projects and ingredients of the Culinary Arts courses offered by the University.

  He found what he was looking for, a seemingly broken microwave tossed haphazardly atop one of the freezers, and entered a quick six-digit numerical code on its pad. There was no tone or indicator of anything for a few moments, then a cabinet on the opposite wall erupted with a noise like a dozen bottles breaking. Walthers strode quickly over to it and threw it open, revealing that the back panel of the cabinet had disappeared, and many of the items stored on the shelves had fallen through the back and down a flight of stairs. He pressed a recessed switch in the top of the cabinet and the shelves retracted to one side, throwing the rest of its contents to the floor as well.

  The students loitering at the entrance to the room stood amazed and silent until Dr. Walthers spoke.

  "There’s more people here then the bunker was designed for. All of you, go through the fridges and freezers, the pantries and cabinets, grab up anything and everything edible and march it down this passage. At the end you'll find a locked door with a keypad. The code is 031537, okay? 031537! Once through I'm sure you'll be able to find the kitchen and storage areas. There should be plenty of room; get it all stored away as best you can."

  When they didn't move Evelyn took charge.

  "Okay folks, you heard him, start raiding the fridge. Most of you are in your late teens and early twenties so this should come naturally to you; c'mon! As you go down the stairs, be careful; there's broken glass and who knows what else on the stairs, don't slip and fall. There's very few medical supplies down there we do not need any broken bones!"

  As they started filing in and emptying out the larder, Evelyn turned to her husband.

  "And just what do you think you're going to do?"

  "Pardon?"

  "You wouldn't need to tell them the code unless you weren't going down there to open it yourself, so, just what exactly do you think you're going to go do?"

  "You said it yourself, there's relatively few medical supplies down there, I'm going to go through this building and find all the classroom first aid kits, as well as some alcohol, towels, rags..."

  "Oh good god the baby."

  "Exactly, we don't know how long we'll be down there."

  "Couldn't you send some of the students...?"

  "You’ll need them; I recognize a few as pre-med. Besides, it'll only be a few minutes."

  "But what if whatever is going on hits before you get back?"

  "It won’t."

  "But how can you be...?"

  "It won't. I love you, be safe, keep them from panicking."

  With that, he turned and left. Evelyn wondered if she'd ever see her husband again as the students behind her started carrying foodstuffs down into the tunnel.

  CHAPTER 3

  Day 1

  Sharon had always been a survivor. First, in the hell of her childhood growing up with a heroin addict for a mother; later, after her mother died, dealing with her sociopathic and sadistic father. Once she'd gotten old enough (or so she'd thought) to survive on her own, she ran away. She'd
struggled, and stolen, and lied, and more than a few times fought, but she eventually made it far enough away from home that she knew her father would never find her.

  Then she got picked up by the cops. Child Services accepted her fake name and she claimed to not know her Social Security number, so they gave her a new one. It was a rough few years bouncing home to home, shelter to shelter, dealing with foster parents and social workers running the gamut from the divine to the demonic. She was halfway glad she didn't have anything one would call a family since, as she saw it, connections made you vulnerable. As soon as she aged out of the foster system, she joined the Marines figuring they'd teach her everything she didn't already know about survival. Unfortunately, that had been 6 days before 9/11. She got what she wanted though, she learned. She learned how to fight even better, how to survive in the wild, how to shoot. And, in her second enlistment, she learned what hell truly was in Kandahar. After a grabby Lieutenant learned no meant no the hard way, she took a General discharge rather than a third enlistment. She thought about going prior service in the Army, but decided instead that she's had enough bullshit in her life. With virtually no life or outside expenses, plus the GI Bill and a few college courses on computers, she'd built up a bit of a nest egg and skillset she could use to set herself up in the civilian world.

  She thought she'd finally escaped the constant sense of desperation. Out of combat, off the streets, with a good job, working from home, her own apartment, a car stashed away in case she needed to leave town. The anonymity of a concrete jungle.

  New York, though. New York had gone to hell in a handbasket damn quick. She was only a year into her semi-retirement, enjoying her six hours of work a day, her ten hours of sleep a night, and her other eight hours doing whatever the hell she wanted, which was mostly staying alone in her apartment listening to music and reading. It was the best time of her life, really.

  She didn't consciously know it, but she was a classic misanthrope. She didn't like people, regardless of who they were or how they treated her. As such, she liked to do her shopping early in the mornings. She was picking up rice and beans when her phone chirped the first warning. At first she figured it was some kind of joke. Just a few weeks ago some teenagers had gotten ahold of the key to one of those roadside signs that instruct drivers of obstructions ahead and programmed it to warn of a zombie outbreak downtown. Surely this was something similar, just with Emergency Broadcast System, right?

  The few other people in the store, one drunk fellow trying to get in from the first biting night of fall, one cashier, and a very bored manager, all went to the front of the store to look out and see what was the matter. They were still there, collapsed on the floor, blocking the automatic doors. She didn't get too close, but obviously something had happened, and Sharon wanted no part of it.

  She gathered supplies into her backpack and checked her phone. There, he had every map and blueprint she could find for the Lower East Side. She made her way deep into the back of the store where in the center of the building she found the basement access. As her phone indicated, from there she was able to find the sewer access, then access to the maintenance stairways and exhaust tunnels leading to the subways.

  That's why she'd chosen New York. Plenty of winding tunnels and hidden abandoned areas to get lost in quick. Plenty of places to flee to, plenty of places to hide. She'd also planned what businesses she did business with based on easy routes of escape, either on the surface or underground.

  She found herself making her way through a disused maintenance tunnel for the MTA Subway near East Houston, the 2nd Avenue Station. She made her way quickly and quietly to the door to the main station. Before she opened it and made her way in, she stopped and crouched down to where there was a small vent at the bottom of the door, the kind with a wire mesh over half a dozen metal blades angled down towards the floor. If a person gets low enough, they can look through and see what's going on the other side, and that's exactly what she did.

  She didn't like what she saw. There were two NYPD Officers there, both looking like they'd been hit by the train, as battered, bruised, and bloody they were. Each was sitting cross-legged on the floor with their hands cuffed behind them. A quick count found ten men surrounding them, each wearing some kind of red headgear. It differed from ‘do-rags to baseball caps to bandanas, with black & purple Adidas windbreakers. Some kind of gang, from the looks of it.

  The leader, obvious because he was the one everyone was looking at, was standing there ignoring the others and fiddling on his phone. He suddenly threw it violently aside where it shattered on the tiled wall of the station. He lunged forward and grabbed one of the cops by the collar, hauling him up to his knees as he bent over and spoke to him. Sharon was too far away to hear what was said, but the cops response wasn't what the gang leader wanted, as he immediately backhanded the cop, sending him onto his side on the floor. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the cop that was still sitting, but as he yelled he addressed the cop on the floor.

  "Man, fuck you! I know you gotta know something about what's going on up there! Now you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on or else I'm gonna blow your partner here's brains out! I seen the dudes up there by the street entrance, man! There's like twenty people up there on the landing man! All like, fucking drained and shit! It's like they been drained by a fucking vampire man! Now is this some kinda fuckin' invasion!? Some kind of new weapon!? What the fuck is it!? Y'all pigs all coordinate and shit! The NYPD, the NSA, the FB fuckin' I. Y'all share shit! Start talkin’, pig!"

  The cop on the floor must have said something, but again it was lost by distance.

  "Man. What the fuck did I say? You think I'm stupid or something!? Fuck..!"

  The gang leader walked over and grabbed the cop on the floor, pulling him up into a seated position where he could see his partner and the rest of the gang. His eyes briefly flicked around the station, seeming even to lock onto Sharon's through the grate for just a moment.

  "Man, I ain't fucking bluffing here. I'm'a grease your partner you don't start talking..."

  The cop managed to take a deep breath and shout. An echoing "I don't know" floated through the vent to Sharon’s ears.

  The gang leader said nothing, merely walked over to the so far silent partner and put his pistol to his forehead and pulled the trigger. A spray of blood, blasted apart skull, and light pink brain matter sprayed liberally across the legs of two of the henchman behind the cop. The cop’s body fell backwards onto the floor of the train station at the same time as did one of the henchman.

  Sharon could feel her mouth go dry as the adrenaline started pumping, a reaction she'd come to recognize in herself as the fight or flight instinct. In this case though, her best option was neither, but to sit and watch events play out. There was no way she could do anything for the remaining cop, not if any of the other gang members were armed, and it was a safe bet they were. At least the leader’s poor firing discipline had meant the round went through the NYPD and into one of his own gang members’ legs. That one was now on the floor cradling his shot leg, looked like it hit the shin, and the bone. Too bad; he’d probably never walk right. Of course, that was if he managed to get the right medical attention fast enough. With all that was going on, that wasn't very likely to happen.

  Sharon took a deep shuddering breath and continued watching. The gang leader was now crouched down in front of the surviving cop, speaking to him quietly. The conversation must not have been going as he liked, since he hit the cop again, this time a closed fist to the face, sending the cop crashing onto his back. He then stood and indicated one of his goons to come to him. They spoke briefly before the leader stood up fully and started walking down the platform, away from Sharon’s hiding spot.

  She had a decision to make. She could possibly save the cops life; she could take two by surprise, especially since one was already wounded and possibly bleeding out. On the other hand, though, it was by far the safer option to try and sneak pa
st, mind her own business, play it safe. She pulled out her phone again to see where she needed to go, dreading the possibility that she might have to go the way the larger group had. Fortunately, the maps she found indicated that two hundred meters up the line, away from the leader and his posse, she'd find an access to a power and gas maintenance tunnel that would take her all the way to the basement of her own apartment building.

  She made her decision. She stood and tested the door. It was locked, as expected, but on this side the lock was a simple switch on the handle. She crouched and looked again. The gang member with the shot leg looked to have passed out, and his buddy was panicking, looking back and forth from the cop to his friend. Apparently a decision was made there as well, as the guy started running towards Sharon and the tunnel down which his compatriots had disappeared.

  Sharon stood and unlocked the door, quickly pulling it open and slipping into the station. The cop and the gang member were roughly twenty feet away. She peered around the corner, looking the way the gang had gone, and saw the reluctant guard dropping off the platform and onto the rails before he started running down the tunnel.

  She made her way over to the two on the platform. The cop was dead; if the bullet hadn’t killed him, the impact with the concrete of the platform to the back of his head looked to have finished the job. The gang member was only out cold, but didn't look good. There was too much blood on the platform that was his; he wasn't going to last long.