Incidental Superhero
Part 6
Gently, we remove the driver from a nearby van and leave him on the sidewalk in an absurd rigor mortis pose of driving a car. He sits there, fixed in place, looking like a world class mime.
We drive the van back to the loading dock at police headquarters and set about filling it up with every implement of gunpowder-fueled destruction we can get our hands on. We cram the back of that van so full of weapons it looks like a fire sale at Remmington estates.
Once Sonya and I are satisfied we could fit not a single extra bullet, the truck’s suspension pushed down to the limit, we drive uptown at a brisk clip, weaving as necessary through frozen traffic and sidewalks alike.
As I drive I steal glances at Sonya. “So run this by me one more time.” I say, as if we weren’t already in a van loaded with guns racing toward a nuclear warhead.
Sonya’s brown hair is cinched in a ponytail and she has one bare arm hanging loosely out the window. If she was nervous she wasn’t showing it. “The plan is to shoot the crap out of that missile.”
This part I felt I had a grasp on, it was the why I was having some trouble with. “And that will work how?”
Sonya bites her lower lip and looks down at the dashboard. “It’s the same idea as using a surface to air missile, destructive interception, just on a different scale.”
“The scale of a bullet.” I chime in unhelpfully.
“If we can damage the core configuration we should still be able to stop the nuclear reaction. Or at least reduce it.” She raises her eyebrows and looks back out the window again. “I think.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and keep driving. The missile is approaching from the North. We first saw it over the distant cliff of the palisades. Since then, over a few days our time, it had progressed further. Currently it floats over the Hudson River, dead center between New Jersey and New York, about 500 meters North of the George Washington Bridge.
Guess where we were headed?
Around 135th street we start to see the results of our handiwork everywhere. Abandoned cars litter the empty streets and the sidewalks are covered in backpacks and purses and shopping bags. We left behind anything extraneous, for the sake of efficiency, which meant leaving most everything except the people.
I pull onto the expressway and head out toward the bridge, making sure to take the path to the upper lanes. I had cleared the bridge of cars first thing, over the course of three weeks, back when this all started. Now we breeze through the shadowed on-ramp and out into the bright sunlight, taking the same route we had taken thousands of times before, but this time stopping in the middle of the immense steel span.
We are the only car on the bridge, a common enough experience for me but one that never really became normal. Sonya and I share a look before I shut off the engine and we step out.
It really was quite beautiful, this day someone had chosen to be the end of the world. The blue water of the Hudson stretches north as far as our eyes can see, mirrored by the bluer sky. The sun shines high and proud, and not a single cloud dares show its face. The heady scent of our four year spring still lingers in the air.
But Spring’s odor was not the only thing for which that could be said.
There, close now, visible clearly, absurdly, with the naked eye, down to the smooth rivets, carbon scuffed from atmospheric reentry, was the missile. It floats, still and foreboding, in midair.
Staring at it, so inert and yet suffused with such power, I can’t help but be amazed at the immense stupidity and tragic genius of our hapless human race.
Sonya breaks me out of my reverie with a dual fisted barrage of automatic fire aimed down the length of the abandoned bridge. She holds one ridiculously large rifle in each hand, the butts lodged into her shoulders, her body braced at a slight forward angle to deal with all the recoil.
The spitspat pops of dozens of miniature explosions fill the air with sonic chaos as bullets flying down the length of the completely empty bridge. Sonya tries to hold the rifles steady, fails, and then laughs uproariously as the barrels jitter around in front of her, spraying bullets in a wide arc, lé petite Scarface.
When the rifles click empty Sonya lets out an exultant yell that echoes across the length of the bridge, spins around, sees me staring and shoots me a lopsided smile. “Sorry, I just always wanted to do that. Should we get to work?”
I have some thoughts about guns, especially gun safety, and I have half a mind to expound upon those thoughts with Sonya now. But, I don’t, because, if I’m being honest, I’ve never been more attracted to her. “Sure.” I say, and we started unloading the truck.
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