“Who’d report the news?” But her stomach clenched. “And how would I talk to you every day?”

“I figure I’ve got time before they come knocking, and I’ve got an escape hatch. If you use this, Arlys, no shitting around, get gone. Get supplies you can carry and get out of the city. Don’t fuck around.”

He paused, shot her that grin again. “On that note. Hit it, Frank!”

Arlys closed her eyes, let out a weak laugh when she heard Sinatra crooning “New York, New York.”

“Yeah, I’m spreading the news.”

“He sure made it. Skinny guy from Hoboken. Hey, I’m a skinny guy, too. It’s got a ring, right? Hoboken.”

His grin stayed wide, but she saw his eyes—his intense and serious eyes. “Yeah, I did a fluff piece there a million years ago.”

“Podoken Hoboken. It ain’t no Park Avenue, but its number-one boy sure went places. Anyway, gotta book. I was hackedy-hacking till three in the a.m. Three in the morning’s past even this boy’s bedtime. Keep it real.”

“You, too, Chuck.”

She ended the call, pulled up a street map of Hoboken.

“Park Avenue,” she mumbled. “And found it. Number One Park Avenue, maybe? Or … Park crosses First Street. Park and First, three a.m. if I get out of Manhattan.”

She got up, paced, trying to absorb all Chuck had told her. She trusted him—nearly everything he’d told her up to that morning had been verified. And what hadn’t been officially verified had swirled into the anonymous-sources category.

Two billion dead. Mutated. Yet another dead president. She needed to do some research on Sally MacBride—Ag Secretary turned POTUS, according to Chuck. She’d be ready if and when the change of power was announced.

If she went on the air with that, the uniforms—or the men in black—would certainly swarm the station. Take her in for questioning, maybe shut it all down. In the world that had been she’d have risked questioning, risked being hauled into court to protect a source. But this wasn’t the world that had been.

She’d stick with officially verified reports for her morning edition, that and her own observations. Then she’d write up copy from Chuck’s intel. Monitor the Internet—Little Fred could help her with that. If she could name another source, even from the deep Web, she’d protect herself and Chuck. And the station.

She knew there were people who depended on the broadcasts—for help, for hope, for truth when she could find it for them.

She sat back down, poured more coffee, wrote copy, refined it, rewrote, printed it. She’d have Fred set it in the prompter.

She took the copy with her to wardrobe, picked a jacket before going in to do her own makeup and hair. The world might be ending, but she would look professional when she reported same.

In studio, she found the bouncy, redheaded Little Fred chatting with the sad-eyed cameraman.

“Hi, Arlys! You were working away and I didn’t want to break your rhythm. I got some apples and oranges, put them in the break room.”

“Where do you find this stuff?”

“Oh, you just have to know where to look.”

“I’m glad you do. Can you set my copy up?”

“Sure thing.” She lowered her voice. “Steve’s feeling low. He saw some asshole shoot a dog last night. By the time he got down to the street, the guy was gone, and the dog dead. Why do people have to be so mean?”

“I don’t know. But there are people like Steve who’d go down on the street to try to help a dog, so that’s the other side of it.”

“That’s true, isn’t it? Maybe I can find him a dog. There are so many strays now.”

Before Arlys could comment, Little Fred dashed off to load the prompter.

Arlys walked behind the anchor desk, fit on her earpiece.

“Am I coming through?”

“We’ve got you, Arlys.”

“Good morning, Carol. I’ve got ten minutes of hard, another ten of soft. Little Fred’s loading it up.”

They talked production, added in copy Carol and Jim had written, worked out the opening story, the close—the unicorn got the close—and calculated they could offer a full thirty-minute report.

“When we get through this, Arlys,” Jim said in her ear, “and the world’s sane again—relatively—you’re keeping that anchor desk on The Evening Spotlight.”

The big guns, she thought. And thought, too, of what she’d learned from Chuck. It would never happen.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Solemn oath.”

Fred set the written copy on the desk, and a mug of water. “Thanks.” Arlys checked her face, smoothed her long bob of deep brown hair, ran through some tongue twisters when she got the thirty-seconds mark.

At ten, she rolled her shoulders, at five turned to the camera, waited for Steve to give her the go.

“Good morning. This is Arlys Reid in New York with your Morning Report. Today, the World Health Organization estimates the death toll from H5N1-X at more than one billion, five hundred million. Yesterday, President Carnegie held meetings with officials from the WHO and the CDC, including the heads of both organizations and scientists who are working around the clock to create a vaccine to combat the virus.”

I’m lying, she thought as she continued. Lying because I’m afraid to tell the truth.

Lying because I’m afraid.

CHAPTER FOUR

While Arlys gave her report, Lana listened to the ugly news layered on ugly news as she looked out the window.

She loved the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows, loved being able to look out at what had become her neighborhood. How many mornings had she or Max run across to the little bakery for fresh bagels? Now, instead of a display window filled with tempting pastries and cakes, boards covered the glass and obscene graffiti covered the boards.

She tracked her gaze down to the corner deli where she’d so often joked with the cheerful woman behind the counter. Doris, Lana remembered. Her name was Doris, and she’d always worn a white cap over tight, tight gray curls and bright, bright red lipstick.

Only the day before, Lana had looked out this same window to see the once-busy, family-run deli reduced to charred brick, still-smoking wood, and smashed glass.

Surely for no reason other than vicious glee.

So many shops and restaurants she and Max had patronized, had enjoyed, were closed now or had been destroyed by looters or vandals.

Other lofts and apartments were empty or locked up tight. Did the locked ones hold the living or the dead?

No one walked the sidewalks this morning. Not even those who sometimes ventured out to scavenge for food or supplies before they locked themselves in again. Not a single car drove past.

They came at night, with the dark. The self-dubbed Raiders. Was there any other word for them? Lana wondered. They came out, roaming in packs like rabid wolves, roaring along the streets on motorcycles. Firing guns, heaving rocks or firebombs through windows. Smashing, burning, looting, laughing.

The night before, awakened by the shouts, the gunshots, Lana had risked a look. She’d seen a pack of Raiders all but on the doorstep of their building. She’d watched two argue, fight, draw knives while others circled to cheer on the blood. They left the vanquished bleeding on the street—but not before kicking him, stomping on him.

Max had called the police. His own growing powers helped him boost the signal, as phones—landlines or cells—rarely connected now.

They’d come, clad in riot gear, a full hour after the call. They had bagged the body and taken it away—but hadn’t bothered to come in and interview her or Max.

She could see the blood on the street from the window.

How could the world have gone so dark, so cruel? And at the same time when such light had come into her? She felt it bloom, felt it glow, felt that rush of power whenever she opened herself to it.

She knew it was the same for Max, that blooming, that discovery.

She’d seen for herself there were others. The woman she’d watched leap off the roof of the building across the street. Not in despair, but to soar joyfully on luminous, spreading wings.

Or the boy of no more than ten she’d watched skipping down the street, turning the streetlights off and on with his waving arms.