A Normal Day, Until It Wasn't

I was sitting on the MTA 42^nd Street bus to Times Square, looking out the window, with my phone in my lap. Phones were a necessity when taking public transit. Not only did they allow you stay in touch with the world, they also allowed you to avoid the ever-awkward eye contact with the strangers and weirdos who also rode public transit.   

I’m a seasoned New Yorker, and because I’m a poor seasoned New Yorker who will never be able to afford a car, I’m pretty tight on my public transit survival skills. Sure, the trains were faster, but (a) there were fewer weirdos on busses compared to the freak-show that is the subway; and (b) I still loved the ride into Times Square — all the lights, all the people, all the energy. I’d been commuting from Staten Island to my job as a “genius” at the Apple Store for about five years, a commute that took well over an hour. I’m sure I could have gotten a transfer to a closer store, but I just loved Times Square.

We were almost to the Port Authority station, when all the phones on the bus started blaring the emergency alert system tone. Almost as one, everyone on the bus lifted up their phones to read their screens, me included.

This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Ballistic Missile Treat. Inbound to New York City. Seek Immediate Shelter. This is not a drill.

What the hell? I looked around at my fellow travellers. Everyone looked confused.  Was this for real? Or was this like that dumpster fire in Hawaii? How would we know? I was starting to freak out. Should I run down into the subway to get into cover? Or wait to see if it was a mistake? I didn’t know.

A second alert blasted from all the phones.

We repeat, this is not a drill. Ballistic Missile Treat. Inbound to New York City. Seek Immediate Shelter. Impact time: eight minutes. This is not a drill.  

Eight minutes! The world was going to end in six minutes!

Our bus driver pulled over the to curb, and opened the doors, front and back. She turned to face us.

“If this alert is true, ya’ll should get to the subway, right now. The entrance to the subway station is right here. I’m gonna park this bus, and join you there.”

Almost as one, we left the bus. There was panic tinging our behaviour — pushing and shoving to get off the bus. Once I reached the street, I looked around. There were people running up and down the street. Cars stood abandoned in the street. The End of Days guy — the one with the sign that said “The End Is Near” looked surprisingly panicked. I guess he didn’t figure the end was actually this near. People were streaming into the subway station. I figured I needed to hustle my butt down there, pronto. I headed for the stairs, but was jostled from behind, and almost lost my footing. Because I didn’t want to get trampled to death, I made my way to the wall, and used the handrail to help me stay upright. The flood of people pushed me into the underground station. I was seriously worried that I would be crushed to death at the bottom of the first set of stairs — you can’t get into the station without a MetroCard or OMNY pass to activate the turnstiles. What would happen if we all piled up against the locked turnstiles? It would be ugly. But, thankfully, someone had opened up the entrances, and we all streamed through. En masse, we continued down the stairs to the Times Square platform level. Some people stayed at this level, but I continued further down towards the 42^nd Street platform — down the stairs, along the long hallway to the platform. We were as far away from the surface as we were going to get without a shovel.

The centre platform was was dangerously crowded — like there hasn’t been a train for hours, crowded. There was no room, and I felt like I was being pushed against the people in front of me by the surge behind me. I started to make my way towards the wall.  

Another alert. Everyone stopped their pushing, and looked at their phones.  

We repeat, this is not a drill. Ballistic Missile Treat. Inbound to New York City. Seek Immediate Shelter. Impact time: four minutes. This is not a drill.

Holy crap! Was I going to die in four minutes? Was this it? Was I going to perish in a stinky old subway station, alone, without my friends or family? Did they know what was happening? Were they safe? All these questions flooded into my brain at once.

The crowd surged forward again. People were crying and moaning. Others were on their phones trying to call their loved ones.  

I edged my way along the wall to the lip of the platform, as close to the edge as I could go without falling into the tracks. I looked up and down the tracks. There was a train stopped just before the platform, at the other end of the station. I decided to take the emergency stairs down into the tunnel. A dark, dank tunnel was preferable to being stampeded on the platform. I climbed down to the track. Another alert blared.

We repeat, this is not a drill. Ballistic Missile Treat. Inbound to New York City. Seek Immediate Shelter. Impact time: two minutes. This is not a drill.

I quickly texted my family. I felt like I was sending a goodbye text — the same kind of text that the people stuck in the towers during 9/11 sent to their families. I told them what was happening, and that I loved them. I wasn’t sure if they would receive my message, but I tried to send it anyways — I figured that if I could receive the alerts, I might be able to send a text, unless the system crashed because all eight point six million New Yorkers tried to use their phones at the same time -- a strong possibility.  

I walked quickly down the tracks, north away from the platform. I wasn’t the only person who had decided to get off the platform. There were quite a few people ahead of me, and more behind me. I just wanted to get away from all the crowds. I hoped that I would be safer the farther away from street level I could get. Another alert. Please let this be a mistake,  I thought.

Impact is Imminent.  Prepare for Impact. Get Underground If Possible. Duck and Cover. Impact is Imminent.

I dropped into a squat, and covered my head, knowing in my heart of hearts that if this was a nuclear ballistic missile strike, ducking and covering wasn’t going to save me. Nothing was going to save me. I would be vaporized.

There was a huge impact forty feet above my head, at street level. It shook the ground below my feet. Dirt rained down from the ceiling above. And then there was another, and another. The impacts continued for what seemed forever. The ceiling across the the tunnel collapsed in. There was a short scream, then nothing.

The impacts continued unrelenting. I squatted in the tunnel with my arms over my head, wishing it would end. At one point, the electricity went out in the tunnel, leaving everyone in total darkness. Screams and cries could be heard between impact strikes.  The eerie emergency lights flicked on, shining weak pools of light on the tracks.  

It was then that I realized that there were no more impacts from above. Was it over? I couldn’t be sure, but I was still alive. 

I looked at my phone, but I had no bars. People around me were starting to move. There was crying, and shouting. I decided to continue north along the tracks.

Someone grabbed my shoulder. I jumped, startled. “Hey. Where you going?”

In the weak light I saw a man. I recognized him from the bus. He was around my age, give or take, dressed in jeans, a shirt and a zipper hoodie with NYU emblazoned across the front. He didn’t look like a serial killer, but you know, what does a serial killer look like?

“North, towards Central Park.”  

“Yeah, me too.”

“We can get out at Rockefeller Centre.”

I didn’t say anything more, just kept walking through the dark tunnel. I hoped that the electricity wouldn’t be restored until we reached the station at 30 Rock. I couldn’t help but see the irony in getting killed by a train after surviving whatever this had been.  

Tunnel Guy came up beside me.

“I’m Benji Catalino.”

“Alyin Hazlett.” I kept walking.

“So, WTF? What happened?

“I only know what the alerts said, that we were being attacked by ballistic missiles.”

“Yeah, right? But what kind? We’re not incinerated, so not nuclear. We’re not all foaming at the mouth, so it’s probably not chemical. I think the air circulation system would have put us all out of our misery by now if it had been biological, but they are slower acting.” He paused, thinking. “It could have been conventional, but I’m not sure. A really powerful ballistic missile would have caused a lot of damage, and I don’t think that we would have been safe, even forty or fifty feet below ground.”

I looked sideways at my tunnel buddy. “How do you know all this? What are you, a rocket scientist?”

“Well, yes, I am. I’m an aerospace engineer. I work at JPL. I’m just here for a conference. How about you?”

“I live here. Well, I actually live on Staten Island.” I paused. “If Staten Island is still exists, and hasn’t been wiped off the map.” My heart started to race, and I was beginning to panic again. I quickened my pace. I wanted out of this tunnel, and I wanted to know what was happening “up there.”

Benji kept pace, and we continued walking. Other people were in the tunnel, passing us, going south, away from us, or sitting on the rails, looking shell-shocked. One young girl was sitting on the centre track with her feet on the third rail, sobbing. I stopped and went over to her.

“Hey, you’ve gotta move off of the rail. If the power comes back on, you’re gonna get fried.”

She looked up at me, through her tears. “I don’t care. I want to die.” She sobbed, even louder. “Everything’s probably gone, anyways.” She looked away, “Just leave me alone.” I looked at my new buddy, Benji, silently asking him for help.

“Hey” he said, “We’re walking to Rockefeller Centre station. Why don’t you come with us? We can find out what’s going on together.”

“No. I just want to stay here.”

I moved closer to her, offering her my hand. “No, really, we want you to come with us. Do you live in New York?”

“Yes. Off of Central Park. My Grandparents have an apartment in the Dakota. If it’s still there,” she moaned.

“Perfect. We’ll take you there.” I still held out my hand. “Come with us.”

Reluctantly she took my hand. We started walking towards the next subway platform.

“I’m Benji, and this is Alyin. What’s your name?”  

“Anastasia.” We continued walking in the dark, in silence. 

There had been some damage to the tunnel, but it seemed, for the most part, still intact, with a few minor cave ins, and I noticed in at least two places that the track had been damaged. I hoped that we would be able to trek to the next station, and make it to the surface. But I was also afraid of what lay ahead at ground level.

I knew we were getting close to Rockefeller station because of the dim light ahead. Although the power was out, there was emergency power lighting the platform. As we approached, I assumed that everyone would have made their way to the surface, but that wasn’t the case. People were still on the platform, not making any move to head up the stairs. It was strangely silent. People weren’t talking, they were just sitting against the walls or on the benches, saying nothing. I figured it was probably fear of the unknown. If you didn’t go up to the surface, you wouldn’t have to acknowledge that life had been changed, irrevocably. We silently walked towards the stairs and the surface.

As we climbed, my heart was hammering in my chest. I was scared to death about what we would find when we ascended to street level.  

Compared to the relative silence of the subway tunnel, the cacophony that greeted us topside was jarring. The three of us reached the top of the stairs, and looked around. I was gobsmacked. Buildings were smoking ruins. It looked as if a missile had landed right in front of 30 Rock, and had damaged the entrance to the building. Where the skating rink would have been was a gaping hole. Emergency vehicles clogged the streets. People in uniforms swarmed around. I walked toward a uniformed officer on perimeter duty. He looked haggard and jumpy.

“Do you know what happened?”

“We were attacked. Can you effing believe it? We were attacked.”

I was stunned. It had been almost twenty years since the US had last been attacked.

Benji spoke up. “Do we know who did this?”

“Nah. Nothing yet, but a lot of communications are out, so who knows?”

We drifted away from the chaos at Rockefeller Square, heading north. The trip was grim. We passed ruined buildings that had suffered direct hits, flipped cars, rubble in the street, a film of shattered glass covering everything. But the damage extended beyond the built environment. Injured people sat on the curbs or in doorways, waiting for help to arrive. And there were bodies of the dead lying in the street. Most, but not all, covered by sheets. Anastasia looked like I felt — shell-shocked. I put my arm around her shoulder. Benji looked around, dazed.

We were not the only people on the street. Everyone looked as dazed and confused as the three of us. Some were looking furtively up to the sky, waiting for the next missile. I looked up as well. A beautiful clear blue sky. No clouds, just the smoke from fires. I felt sick.

We slogged on. When we came to Columbus Circle, there was a huge crater beside the the Columbus monument which had caused the entire monolith to crash to the ground, blocking all lanes of traffic.

Anastasia started to panic. She strained to see if the Dakota, her home, had survived the missile strikes. I put my arm around her shoulder.

“It looks like the Dakota is fine. Your grandparents should be okay.”

“What if they aren’t? What if something happened?” She pulled away from me, and started to run.

“Anastasia! Wait!” Benji and I followed after her.  

Benji caught up to her, and put his arm around her. “It’s okay, Anastasia. It’s okay. We’re going to go with you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

I caught up with them, and together we walked to rest of the way to 72^nd Street. We passed an empty guard shack, and approached the side entrance of the Dakota, Anastasia used her key to unlock the door, and pulled it open. We headed into the building. Anastasia turned into the stairwell.

“We’re on the third floor. The stairs are faster.”

She climbed quickly, leaving Benji and me in her wake. She yanked the fire door open and rushed down the hall. She stopped at a door about half way down the hall, and banged on it.

“Grams! Gramps! It’s me!” The door opened.

An elegant woman of indeterminate age opened the door, with a distinguished looking gentlemen beside her. They enveloped Anastasia in hugs and kisses. She broke away from their embrace, to face us.

“This is Alyin and Benji. They helped me get of out the subway tunnels. I was lost. They saw me sitting on the rails crying. They saved me.”

Anastasia’s grandfather opened the door wider, “Thank you. Please, come in.”

I walked in ahead of Benji. I had never been in the Dakota Apartment building, but, from what I could see from Anastasia’s grandparents’s home, it was fantastic.

Anastasia’s grandfather spoke to Benji and me.

“I’m Douglas Brown this is my wife, Rebecca. Thank you for bringing Anastasia back to us. We were so worried. Please come in and rest.”

We followed Anastasia and the Browns into what I assumed was the living room, and sat down on the sofa, with Benji beside me. I noticed that the apartment had electricity. I knew the Dakota had its own power station. I heard a radio in another room. Maybe the Browns knew the situation.

“Do you know what happened? The only thing that I know is that there were ballistic missiles inbound.”

Douglas Brown turned to me. “You don’t know then?”

“No. What’s happening?”

“North Korea has declared war on the United States. Using stealth technology, they have launched a number of ballistic missiles that have landed on both coasts, hitting most of the major cities — New York, Boston, Washington DC, Los Angeles, Seattle.”

I was stunned.

“They were conventional missiles. But Pyongyang has declared that the next wave of missiles will be nuclear unless we surrender. Russia has sided with North Korea, as has China. Both have indicated that they will also use whatever methods are necessary to ensure the US’s surrender, including the use of nuclear weapons.”

“What has the president said?”

“President Graham said that we have the backing of the UN, and that allied countries are supporting the US. But we are unprepared.”

“Oh my God. We are at war.” Benji put his are around my shoulder.

I started to cry.