The Queensboro bridge was about seven thousand feet in length by car, including long approaches up to the spans. They’d skipped a couple thousand feet at the start by coming up through the old trolley station, then passed over another five hundred feet between the two architectural piers on Manhattan. From there to the western pier on Welfare Island, it was over a thousand feet of catwalk, suspended high over the west channel of the East River.
The Baron started towards the catwalk on the south edge of the pier, calling for people to follow. “This way! We’ll climb down at the second pier!”
Private Clark and Sergeant Yearwood fell in behind him, followed by the Zombie, Phyllis, and the rest of the work crew. Shimmying one by one through the narrow gap, they stepped out onto a layer of steel, separating them from the yawning void. The Baron put a hand on the railing and walked briskly, ignoring a wavering vertigo.
The catwalk wrapped around the back of the pier and connected up to the trusses on the underside of the lower deck. The Baron strode forward, hearing footsteps behind him, feeling the weight of all these people on a single stretch of suspended metal.
Ahead, the next span of the bridge reached a thousand feet to its first connection on Welfare Island. That distant pier was about a hundred and twenty five feet tall, but it looked much smaller than a fist at arm’s length. The Baron’s brain couldn’t quite comprehend the distances or scales. With the blankness of sunshine on water, the long shadow of the bridge, and the narrowing perspective, their destination seemed much further away. Miles and miles.
He took a few steps out and turned back to check on the progress of the men following him. Yearwood and Clark were moving slower than expected—equally afraid of the heights—but free to show their fears. The Baron grinned, projecting confidence. “High up, I know!” He gestured idly over one shoulder, as if the yawning air and thin metal walkway were as sturdy as the mountains. “I can move on ahead, come back with the IDs, if it helps?”
“Can’t!” Clark yelled over the wind. “Captain wanted us to go!”
“Orders are orders!” Yearwood agreed.
The Baron knew these excuses were thin. Clark had requested to come along; he could easily lie and insist that they’d done their duty, and nobody would know any better. The guards were following him because they suspected him of genuine treachery and wished to stop him. There was no other reason to follow him out onto this perilous walk.
“Fine with me!” d’Holbach called regardless.
The Zombie stood behind Clark, waving towards the Baron. Both Guardsmen were facing forward, unable to see the gesture. When he recognized the Baron’s attention, the Zombie mimed a swipe to the left. He could easily knock one of the soldiers off the walk.
Beyond him, Phyllis and her workers formed a receding tableau of aghast figures. The Baron shook his head very slightly. Those workers had asked for no deaths. He’d try to win this situation through words before they tossed anyone off the bridge.
“What is it?” Yearwood asked, noticing the subtle gesture.
“Just grab the railings if you need ‘em!” the Baron called. “Keep the pace, and we’ll get you back here in less than twenty minutes.” He turned towards the distant pier, keeping his own hands free of the railings, and he strode out into the airy reaches, pretending that he couldn’t feel the catwalk quivering and shimmying under his weight.
In silence, he maintained this confident stride for nearly two hundred feet, until Private Clark finally shouted, “Mr. Davila! Sir! Mr. Davila, stop!”
The Baron stopped, grabbing a railing and looking back across the heady heights. The Guards were hurrying to catch up, suspended with the Baron over the silvery reaches of the river. The Zombie, Phyllis, and the crew were easily keeping pace behind them.
“What’s wrong?” he asked them.
Yearwood answered first. “You’re going too fast!”
The Baron sighed, stressing the sound until it rose over the wind. “We’re on a tight clock! I told you before, I can go grab our stuff and come back up. It wouldn’t take ten minutes.”
“No, sir!” Yearwood yelled. “You might run.”
“Why would I run, goddamnit? I want to inspect the bridge.”
Private Clark fielded the question with a glare. “We can’t prove you’re an inspector! We just can’t!” He stumbled further forward, grabbing at the railing as they finished closing the gap to the Baron. “If you keep pressing, we’ll have to hold you! Arrest you!”
“He’s right,” Yearwood said, striding up to d’Holbach. “It’s our job, Mr. Davila.”
The Baron huffed with real indignation. “It’s interfering with my job.” That was the plain truth. The more they fought with him, the more likely they were to die.
Yearwood stopped in front of him, squinting bleakly. “Every one of those Commie bastards looks, sounds, and works as an American citizen. You understand?”
“So what? What does an ID matter?”
“Records, sir. And prophylaxis. If you’re one of them, we’ll know who you were, where you live. If you don’t have an ID, we’ll hold you until this is over. Simple safety.”
“Why would you think I’m not me? I’m working with a crew.”
“Who don’t know you, sir. They have IDs. You don’t.”
Private Clark, the Zombie, and everyone else finally connected up into a cluster of humanity, dangling beneath the rumbling pavement. “You’ve been acting weird since we met you,” Clark added. “Pushing to go free. Arguing. Bitching.”
“I have to finish work today,” the Baron said.
“It’s not as important as catching those pinkos.” Clark pointed towards the distant pier. “Go on, now. Just don’t rush. We’ll get this done. Then you can get to work.”
The Baron started walking, even as he continued to complain. “You’re really going to slow me down?”
“If you go fast, we’ll arrest you,” Clark said.
“For that matter, if you keep complaining, we’ll arrest you,” Yearwood said.
“Being angry makes him a Communist?” the Zombie asked cheerily.
Clark glanced back. “It makes him suspicious. You’re no better.”
The Zombie laughed, and it was a harsh sound, almost mocking in its cruelty. “Why? Because of my skin color?”
“You said it, not me,” Clark replied.
The Baron felt hairs rising on his arms. This was a dangerous line of conversation, and if one of those soldiers acted surly, he might ride that attitude down to the water. “Don’t talk like that now. Mr. Le is a league boxer, and we’re on a catwalk.”
“So what?” Yearwood asked.
“So I throw a mean punch,” the Zombie replied.
“Are you threatening me?” the Sergeant asked, flashing anger like lightning.
The Zombie laughed even louder.
The Baron jumped on the answer: “I’m asking you to not poke a man with a temper worse than mine. I don’t want any fighting under the bridge. I want to work.”
“You’re the one pickin’ fights,” Yearwood replied.
“Because I know when to end them. Mr. Le doesn’t.”
Phyllis shouted from the back, “Can you stop arguing and walk? I want this inspection done before sunset!”
“What about overtime?” asked the Irishman.
“Stuff your overtime,” Phyllis replied gruffly.
With her words, the tension momentarily abated, though the clouds of conflict hadn’t vanished. They were a little over a third of the way across now, and in about 600 feet, they’d reach Welfare Island’s western pier. By then, they’d either have to convince these men to back down, or they’d have to disable or kill them. The union crew didn’t want anything to do with dead soldiers, so if the worst happened, they’d have to be separated from the Zombie before he did the deed.
It sickened the Baron to know that they might end up killing two men who were just trying to serve their country, but there was little else he could do if they insisted on arresting him. Saving Marco had been a luxury, and at times it’d been a foolish one. In contrast, saving these two would be a liability. For the sake of the world, disposing of them might be best.
They passed another four hundred feet over the western channel. Fresh, heavy winds picked up around them, whistling over the catwalk and through the trusses. Everyone but the Zombie adjusted their clothes, tightening their postures. The Zombie breathed deep, enjoying the sensation of high open air. The Baron looked into the wind from time to time, seeking the horizon past the city skyline. Eventually, the angle of the East River curved just so, revealing a slate barrier peeking over the horizon from the North Atlantic.
This morning’s dry cold front had blown out over the Gulf stream and concentrated the scattered strength of the warm current. Now it was returning to land, first as foreboding clouds, but by sunset as a vicious nor’easter storm. Even at this incredible distance, even in the light of the afternoon, the Baron could see dim wreaths of lightning dancing across their crowns, violence on the edge of the sky. “Storm coming,” he called.
“So there is,” Yearwood replied behind him.
“We really have to be done by sunset!” Phyllis yelled.
At her insistence, the Baron chose to launch one final attempt at deception. “Sergeant,” he said aloud. “Is there anything I can say? Anything I can do that’ll let us get to work faster than heading down to the island?” He chose Yearwood, not Clark, hoping that the man with more authority and less suspicion would offer some final glimpse of hope, away from death.
“Not after a question like that,” Yearwood said.
“You heard the woman.”
“I heard her complain, but you’re the desperate one.”
“Huh.” The Baron sniffed. “What does desperation mean to you, exactly?”
“You’re guilty of something. Hiding something.”
“I’m betting there’s no ID,” Clark said.
“I’m not an insurgent,” the Baron said sharply.
“Still no ID,” Clark insisted.
“Believe what you want,” the Baron replied. “I really am in a hurry. These catwalks will be hellish when they’re wet.”
“We’re not far,” Yearwood said, pointing past the Baron towards the pier, a mere two hundred feet away from them. “It won’t take much longer.”
“Friend?” the Zombie asked.
“Yes?” the Baron replied.
“They aren’t letting us go.”
“I know.”
“What does that mean?” Private Clark asked the Zombie.
“Sounds bad,” Yearwood said bitterly.
The Baron started forward, raising a hand for their attention. The others followed closely, watching him as he announced, “If you want to know the truth, don’t touch your radios. Don’t touch your guns. That’s my request.”
Clark spoke up quickly, letting his voice crack so very slightly. “We’ll radio if we please.”
“I understand,” the Baron said, continuing to march toward the distant pier. “But if you want the truth, you’ll listen before you make that call. All right?”
“I’d do it,” the Zombie said. “I’d listen!”
“Fine,” the Private uttered. “Talk then.”
The Baron glanced back over one shoulder, loosely touching the railing as he kept walking forward. “My name isn’t Davila. And that’s not Le. We’re agents of the ASA. That’s the US Army Security Agency. We’re codebreakers.”
“Bullshit,” Yearwood said sharply.
“We’re delivering a coded message to our CIA contact in Queens. You’ve probably heard his name kicked around today’s operation. Robert Heckhaus.”
“I ain’t heard of him,” Clark replied.
“I might’ve heard something,” Yearwood corrected. “But I still think it’s bullshit. If you were our boys, they’d be waving you through.”
“And flagging us to every Soviet spy in the Guard? I think not,” the Baron continued. “We hired that work crew to walk us over to Queens. Turns out the Guard is doing a better job than our contacts expected.”
Clark turned to Phyllis, peering past the Zombie. “Is that true, ma’am?”
“We were told to start the inspection in Queens,” Phyllis replied, lying easily.
“We don’t know shit about the army,” said a union boy. “This is a job.”
“They don’t know,” the Baron finished, “because they shouldn’t know, but I’m making an exception. You’re good soldiers—good patriots—but I can’t let you get in the way. So please. Write down that we showed ID, and send us on our way. I can supply real addresses, real phone numbers, everything you need, but I can’t let you hold us.”
“Wait, stop,” Yearwood said curtly.
The Baron stopped, and everyone drew to halt behind him. They were maybe a hundred feet from the western pier on Welfare Island. The Zombie was standing behind Clark, carefully watching the man’s hand in case he went for his radio. Phyllis was glaring directly at the Baron with very real disapproval. He’d gone far off the rails with this plan. She had to pretend ignorance. Her men idled behind her, looking down at the shimmering, wind-tossed water beyond their feet. Despite the vertigo, it was easier to behold a deadly height than it was to look upon this confrontation and remain calm.
“Show me the message,” Yearwood said.
“That’s not how this works,” the Baron replied.
“It’s coded, right? You can show me.”
“I can’t. If I open it, our contacts can’t trust it. It has to arrive sealed. They have to know nobody could change it en route.”
“Show me the letter.”
“I can’t—”
“The envelope then!” Yearwood yelled. “Show it to me!”
“I can’t!”
“Show something! A sealed envelope!”
“It’s not an envelope!”
“What is it then? Jesus Christ, just show some proof!”
“I can’t! It’s hidden so nobody can steal it!”
“Fuck this,” Clark said, grabbing the radio at his belt.
The Zombie’s hand shot out like a viper, biting down on the private’s wrist with clenching, pointed fingers. Invincible anatomy compressed Clark’s forearm like it’d been stuffed into the gears of an industrial machine. The twin crunches of ulna and radius came on top of each other, high above the wind. Clark shrieked, dropping the radio with a clang and a bounce, before it tumbled away into the desolate reaches of air, and Clark lurched sideways into the railing with a thud.
The Baron flinched, grabbing hold of the railing himself. Everyone else had the same reaction, instinctually reacting to the awful shake of that thin layer of steel separating everyone from three seconds of plummeting life before instant death.
Everyone except Sergeant Yearwood. He heard Clark’s scream, pulled the revolver out of his waist holster, and aimed it point blank at the Baron. Finger on the trigger.
Before d’Holbach could dodge, or Phyllis could wish to break it, or the Zombie could switch targets, Yearwood showed an immense bravery and an even greater cowardice, and he fired the revolver twice into the unarmed Baron. Wrathful thunder.
“Jammed!” Phyllis finished, but too late.
The Baron’s gut was blasted open above his hip bone in two places. A rib fractured. Fresh novas of pain shone brighter than his force of will. He lost his footing, fell back and to the right over his injured side, and slammed hard onto the railing, wrenching his shoulder in his socket and making the entire arm sear with fire. He slid down, right leg going out over the abyss, but he clawed at the walk with his left arm and yanked back over solid metal, slamming onto his back with a bloody thud. The skin was peeled on his fingertips, but they hardly mattered.
Gunshot wounds were becoming his world. Sharp pain rushed through him, cold, but the Cat burned hot. His vision was filled with swarms of fireflies. He squinted, clearing them.
Facing his killer, he saw Phyllis draw a revolver, aim past the Zombie, and open fire into the backs of the National Guard. Six rounds blazed, lighting the shadows of the bridge with muzzle flashes, until every round was spent. Their genuine hero, Phyllis.
Sergeant Clark jerked twice, slumping loosely to one side before the Zombie dropped him. He rolled off the catwalk and into the open air. Sergeant Yearwood died slower, clasping at his chest and curling up as some part of his nervous system failed. Then his legs gave out from under him, his head banged once on a railing as he went down, and he tumbled forward onto the catwalk, fully flaccid. Another second passed. Clark finally hit the distant water like a rock dropped into a creek, a hollow ka-sploosh from far away and two lifetimes ago.
“Get up!” Phyllis roared, popping the cylinder and pulling a handful of bullets from a jacket pocket. She reloaded her revolver with the dexterity of a woman who’d nervously practiced that motion for months or even years.
Anyone at the pier ahead would hear the gunshots and come looking. The Baron’s mind raced, seeking to make the best of this sudden disaster. They had to cross a hundred feet, eliminate anyone looking into the violence, and get the union boys to safety. Phyllis too, if she would. Only he and the Zombie ought to run. Only they should risk what was coming together.
The Zombie kicked Yearwood’s corpse over the edge of the walk, then offered an arm for the Baron to grab. “Friend! Stand up!”
d’Holbach concentrated on the heat of the Cat in his belly. He could’ve swallowed boiling hot coffee and felt less discomfort, but he knew the effect was temporary. Users acclimated to the artifact; they grew used to its integral role in their survival. The Orthodox faction, unlike most cults of the western world, followed the Eastern tradition of heavy recordkeeping, and the properties of the Cat were well-understood. Having witnessed its effect on Marco first hand, the Baron knew he only had to force it. He had to will his body to work, even when it wouldn’t.
One hand reached up, the one made of cobwebs wrapped around static, then the other, fingers throbbing. He grabbed hold of the Zombie, pulling his body weight off the metal. Then up on one knee, beneath the wound. He’d been shot in the large intestine. He was only glad he hadn’t crapped himself, though he’d shit blood later. The other round had shattered the end of his rib right over the kidney. There was a lot of blood coming out of that hole. An artery might’ve been punctured. By any normal standard, these were deaths.
“We have to go!” yelled the Irishman at the back.
“We’ll clear the way!” the Baron shouted to him. “Trust me!” He forced his right leg to move as it should. A muscle was seized by a string of fire. He was the puppeteer grabbing the puppet, and with the Cat inside of him, mind ruled over body. “Trust me!” he shouted with twice the force. He was turning, facing towards the pier. No time to worry.
“Trust him!” Phyllis called.
The Baron burst into a run, a human mechanism, a pattern built through concentration.
“Go, go, go!” the Zombie yelled, running closely behind the Baron.
An instant later, everyone else ran after them, charging towards the polarizing promises of safety and the threat of an enemy response. “Like your lives depend on it!” Phyllis cried.
The Baron felt blood streaming out of his wounds and down his right leg. The Cat gave him heat in his heart and bones. His lungs were hot. He was being sustained, recreated, even while running aggravated both wounds.
The Cat was meant for warriors. The legends were clear. After taking a sword through the sternum, Ilya Muromets had pulled out the blade and stabbed his assailant without hesitation. Some of the assassins who’d assaulted London had been witnessed showing particular resilience while bearing the Cat. They’d treated it like an occult combat suite, a whole set of survival functions for winning a fatal fight.
The Baron could feel it now, as Marco had felt it with a bullet through the brain. You were dying, but you were not allowed to die, and forward you ran.
Author’s Note:
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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