CyberStorm Part 8

"Borders are shut down, international travel halted," he continued, detailing a worldwide collapse like items on a breakfast menu. "CDC can't confirm or deny anything, but hospitals everywhere are flooded with people reporting symptoms. They're saying it's some kind of coordinated biological warfare attack, but I don't buy it."

"Why?"

Chuck's conspiracy-bent mind was always picking behind the news to the "real" story, but for once I was eager to hear his theories. We reached the ground floor and exited to the lobby to take the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs down. We stopped in the white marble foyer beside the j.a.panese garden, now starkly lit by the emergency lighting.

"Do you know that nearly ninety percent of the emergency notification systems in America are all supplied by the same company?"

"So?"

"Hack that one company and, wham, instant access to worldwide chaos."

"Why would someone do that?"

"Chaos, terror, but I have another theory." He opened the door to the bas.e.m.e.nt. "Invasion."

He walked down ahead of me.

"Invasion?"

I hurried after him.

He swung open the door to the first storage locker and began checking box tags with a flashlight.

"Think about it. Disrupt government services, cut off supply lines, transportation, eliminate communications, and then confine civilians indoors before decimating the industrial base, in this case by cutting off power. It's the same cyberattack profile that the Russians used when they invaded Georgia in 2008, more or less."

"That doesn't make any sense."

He found the box he was looking for, dragged it out, and began opening it up.

"I mean Georgia in Asia, not the Georgia with Atlanta."

I stared at him. "I got that."

He finished opening the box and stared back at me.

"Come on, son, grab an end."

Leaning down, I picked up one end of the generator in the box he'd opened, grunting to bear its weight as he lifted the other end, and we began shuffle-walking it toward the stairs. For the next few minutes we struggled up. It wasn't that heavy, but it was awkward, and it felt like we were carrying a body. I needed a break by the time we reached the third landing.

"Stop," I panted, putting the generator down and groaning while I stretched my back. "How much does this thing weigh?"

"The box said a hundred and twenty. It's a beauty, runs on gas, diesel, pretty much anything that'll explode."

"Vodka?"

"That we drink," he laughed.

Taking a deep breath, I wiped the sweat streaming down my temples.

"n.o.body has ever invaded America. You can't be serious."

Chuck laughed. "The Canadians did. They even burned the White House down."

"That was a long time ago, and it was more of a stunt than an invasion."

"History tends to repeat itself," he replied, shrugging and motioning down at the generator. "Come on, boy."

I took a deep breath, stretching my back again, and then leaned over to pick up the generator.

"So your big idea is that we're being invaded by the Canadians?"

"Would explain the snow, eh?" he laughed. "Maybe not literally the same thing, but it's an idea."

"It is an idea," I replied sarcastically, rolling my eyes. Blame Canada.

I grunted and groaned my way up another two flights before begging off for another break. Chuck was sweating but looked comfortable, and he'd been doing this for hours already. I couldn't even hear him breathing hard but realized it would be hard to hear anything above my own labored wheezing and pounding heart. I decided my New Year's resolution would be to get a new gym members.h.i.+p, and more than that, to actually go.

Just then the door beside us, on the fifth-floor landing, swung open and banged hard into Chuck. In the open doorway I found myself staring directly into someone's headlamp.

"Oh, wow, sorry!" whoever it was exclaimed.

Chuck yelped at the impact, dancing backwards and shaking one hand. The man stepped into the stairwell, peering around the door.

"Sorry about that, I didn't think-"

"No worries," said Chuck immediately, regaining his composure, but still ma.s.saging the hand the door had hit.

We all stared at each other for a second.

"Do you guys know what happened to the power?"

"We know as much as you," I replied. "I'm Mike, and this is Chuck."

"Yeah, I recognize you guys, I seen you going in and out sometimes."

I didn't recognize him, but there were a lot of people in the building.

"I'm Paul," he said, and then after a pause added, "from 514."

He reached out to shake hands, and I began to extend my hand, but Chuck pushed me back.

"Sorry," said Chuck, squinting into the light of Paul's headlamp, "can't be too careful, that bird flu warning and all. Hey, could you turn that off?"

"Sure," replied Paul, pulling his hand back and then reaching up to turn off his headlamp. He looked down at the generator. "What's that?"

Chuck paused.

"It's a generator."

"Like, from the building or something?"

"No, it's ours."

"You got any stuff we could borrow?"

"Sorry. We just got this," lied Chuck. "Left over from a job site I was working on."

"Oh yeah?"

Chuck stared at him. The pause became uncomfortable.

"Yeah. And if you don't mind, we need to get going."

Paul shrugged. "Okay, just looking for a little neighborly help. This is some weird s.h.i.+t going on. Have you seen the snow outside? You can barely see the cars anymore."

Another pause.

"Well, good luck," said Chuck, motioning for me to pick up my end again. He picked his up with only one hand this time. "I'm sure the power will be up soon and we're just wasting our time."

We started up the stairs, and Paul went down, opening the door on the fourth floor and disappearing. As soon we reached our floor, Chuck dropped his end.

"Did you see his pants?"

I shook my head. "Why?"

"Soaked from the knees down, and his sneakers were soaked as well. He must have been outside."

"So what? Maybe he went out to have a look."

Chuck shook his head. "At seven in the morning? I've never seen that guy before. Tony must have left the front door to the building open. And why in the h.e.l.l did he go straight onto the fourth floor like that?"

"Maybe it's just a neighbor you don't recognize," I countered, but the hair on my neck p.r.i.c.kled. An intruder.

"You drag this the rest of the way into our place. I'm going downstairs to lock things up."

Chuck rushed off down the stairs, bounding two at a time, and I watched him vanish as the hollow echoes of his footsteps faded. Opening the door to our floor, I leaned down, grunted, and pulled on the generator.

10:05 a.m.

DESPITE THE SITUATION, the rest of the morning gradually took on a festive air.

As soon as Chuck returned from locking up downstairs, I went over to knock on Pam's door and asked her to have a look at Luke. Tony went down and double-checked the front door, leaving a note saying he could be found up at our place.

Chuck inst.i.tuted a strict rule that only our gang, which included Tony, would be allowed into their apartment. He made an exception for Pam, and after some protest, for her husband, Rory. Firing up a kerosene heater, the apartment quickly warmed, and we woke up Lauren and Luke and moved them into Chuck and Susie's spare room.

After a quick inspection, Pam declared that Luke definitely didn't look symptomatic of bird flu, at least from what she understood, and that his fever was breaking. He still had a fever of 102, dangerous but manageable, and she promised to stay close and check in on him.

Pam said that she'd been up all night at the Red Cross blood bank. It'd transformed into an emergency clinic, with volunteer doctors appearing almost as quickly as the flood of people claiming symptoms.

One of the doctors there had worked at the CDC doing research on avian flu. Pam had a long chat with him about what was going on, and he'd explained that the news didn't make any sense-incubation, transmission, symptoms, and so on.

It looked like it really was a false, or fake, alarm.

Our run-in with the suspected intruder was quickly forgotten, and Chuck insisted on opening a bottle of champagne to pour mimosas for everyone. It was Christmas Eve, he toasted, and a white Christmas at that, he added, looking out the window at the driving blizzard beyond.

We all managed to laugh.

All together in the room that morning, warm and safe and unpacking Chuck's equipment as if we were on an indoor camping trip, the sense of danger disappeared. My baby boy was sick with a serious fever, but relieved it was just a regular flu or cold, I felt almost overjoyed.

In the background we kept a radio turned on. The broadcaster detailed the road closures-I-95, I-89, New Jersey Turnpike-and the running tally of homes without power, estimated at ten million and counting across the Northeast. The subway system was shut down. They said the power failure was some kind of electrical cascade in the network, same as had happened a few years ago, and the snowstorm was making it worse.

The voice of the radio announcer, this small connection to the outside world, lent the morning a feeling of familiarity, the same as any other disaster day that New Yorkers would rally from to begin the process of rebuilding. Reports coming in on the bird flu scare were bearing out our feelings-the CDC couldn't confirm any cases, and they hadn't been able to identify the source of the warning.

Buoyed by the alcohol in the mimosa, I went next door to check on the Borodins. I remembered that Irena's daughter and family, who lived in a building next door, had gone away for the holidays, so they were alone. The radio was reminding us to check on the elderly, but I had a feeling the Borodins were just fine.

I went anyway.

Knocking on their door, I heard Irena telling me to come in, come in, and I entered to find them as usual. Irena was sitting in her rocking chair, knitting, and Aleksandr was sitting asleep in his lounger, in front of a blank TV, with Gorbachev at his side. The only difference was that they were bundled up under blankets.

It was freezing in their place.

"Some tea?" offered Irena. Watching her hands carefully finish another st.i.tch, I wished I would have hands as nimble as hers when I was ninety. I'll be happy just to get to ninety.

"Yes, please."

They'd set up what looked like an antique camp stove in their kitchen, and a pot of hot tea sat steaming on it. The Borodins were Jewish, but they had a large holiday tree, beautifully decorated, occupying nearly half of their living room. I'd been surprised last year when they'd asked me to help them get a tree, but I'd learned that this wasn't a Christmas tree, but a New Year tree.

It was the nicest one on our floor, whatever it was called.

Irena got up and went to her pantry door, opening it to get some sugar for the tea, and for the first time I noticed their pantry was stacked, floor to ceiling, with cans and bags of beans and rice. She noticed me looking.

"Old habits die hard," she said, smiling as she returned to pour the tea. "How is the little prince?"

"He's good. I mean, he's sick, but he'll be okay," I answered, accepting the cup of tea, wrapping my hands around it. "Isn't it awfully cold in here? Do you want to come over to Chuck's?"

"Ah," she snorted, waving away my concern, "dis is not cold. I spent winters in shacks in Siberia after the war. Sorry for you, but I opened the windows for some fresh air."

Aleksandr let go a particularly loud snore at that moment, adding his own commentary. We laughed.

"Do you need anything? Just come next door, anytime."

She shook her head and smiled.

"Ah, no. We'll be fine. Stay quiet, not bother anyone."

Taking a sip from her tea, she considered something and looked at me.

"If you need anything, Mi-kay-hal, you remember, you come here, da? We will be watching."