Two

Libraries are excellent sources of information. I've always wanted to visit the Morgan Library and Museum. It's such a fascinating place. The amazing art, the expansive literature… My mother never had the money to take me. Now I stand in front of the building eager to go inside.

The place is just as I always imagined. I go to where they keep the newspapers hoping to find some answers to how the city became so empty. The very first paper I choose…

Couple brutally murdered in their home. The Walkers. It's an article detailing one of my murders. I quickly put it away and pick up another.

Mechanic found dead in her workshop. Artist's mutilated body found in his loft. Woman found dead by her coworkers. Dead. Dead. Dead. Every single newspaper I find has an article about one of my murders.

How is this possible? This can't be right.

I try different countries, languages I don't even understand. I still see my face and it doesn't take a knowledge of language to figure out the meaning of the articles. With shaking hands I tear them to shreds.

There are no answers here.

I have to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The internet? I go into an office building. It's quiet here, too. I turn on the nearest computer. Blue screen. Not even one of those annoying screensavers. I click the mouse and type frantically over the keyboard. No response.

The coffeepot isn't working, either. This place really is Hell.

Maybe I need to get out of the city. See if there are any answers beyond New York.

No cars, no subway, no buses, no ships, no planes… It's a long trip on foot. But what else am I going to do?

On the third day of my journey it rains. I wait it out under the protection of a hotel lobby. The sound of the downpour is like a sigh of relief. It's been so quiet here I'm grateful for the noise.

A rainbow glitters in the sky. No global flood.

I make my way to the Brooklyn Bridge. Excitement energizes me and I start to run. I'm almost there. I don't know what I'll do when I'm on the other side; I just need to put distance between myself and that nightmare.

The building I see when I slow down… The New York Stock Exchange? What the hell?

That's impossible. I crossed the bridge. I crossed it!

I find it again. Walking this time. Measuring every inch. I stop. New York Stock Exchange.

Of course I can't walk out. That would be too easy. Hell would never release its prisoners. I rest there, so tired I go to sleep there on the cold floor.

There are no dreams. That would be a kind of escape. I don't feel rested when I wake. I should have expected as much. I lay there listening to the sound of my heart beating against my chest.

What do I do now?