Survivor by James Phelan Page B

next to my jeans. I noticed there were a dozen or so radios on the table; walkie-talkie type things for the zoo staff to communicate with each other. I tried them all, but the batteries were dead.
    Some cereal and long-life milk were set out, but I left the breakfast untouched. I put two radios in my backpack as well as a charging unit. I’d take them to 30 Rock, charge them up. Rachel needed a generator here, and I’d bring her one of those as soon as I could. I pulled on my shoes and ran downstairs, my backpack over one shoulder.
    Rachel was in an enclosure feeding and watering some monkeys. I watched, silent, hopping from one foot to the other and unsure whether I should interrupt. I waited for her to come out.
    â€œYou’re heading off?” she asked as she walked by, seemingly too preoccupied with the morning’s work to stop and chat. She didn’t sound surprised.
    â€œFor a bit,” I said, running to catch up with her.
    She stood up, wiped her brow, and hefted a big tub containing sad-looking fruit and vegetables, chopped and broken and sprouting here and there. She added a scoopful to a bucket, hesitated, then added a little more.
    â€œWhen will their food run out?”
    â€œFour days for the big cats,” she said. “Not long after for the other carnivores—sea lions will run out in six or seven days. Rest have maybe a couple of weeks’ worth.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “I’m on it.”
    Now I had surprised her. She couldn’t hide it from her voice. “On it?”
    â€œI’ll bring back food,” I said, zipping up my coat. “As much as I can carry.”
    â€œI don’t expect you to do that.”
    â€œHow else will they eat?”
    She looked at me, paused at the entrance to the tropical bird enclosure, and put the feed bucket down.
    â€œYou’re serious?”
    â€œSure!” I said. I slipped the backpack properly across both my shoulders. “I’m headed out anyway, and they need food.”
    â€œYou’re going right now?”
    I checked my watch, nodded.
    â€œYou’re going to look for that girl?”
    â€œI left her that note.”
    â€œBut what if—” A worried look passed over her face. She’d seemed certain that Felicity would be okay, so who was she worried about—herself, the animals? Or me? I couldn’t work it out.
    â€œI’ll come back this afternoon,” I replied. I knew what she had been going to say: What if she doesn’t show? Maybe even some version of, What if she’s dead? “I’ll bring back as much food as I can find.”
    Rachel nodded, and I stepped forward and hugged her. She didn’t move, and she felt so small in my arms. I moved back. She didn’t have an expression other than exhaustion, and she went back to work. I didn’t mind if she didn’t believe me, I was just looking forward to seeing her reaction when I returned with another survivor and more food for her animals than she could have imagined.
    Â 
    Twenty minutes later I was at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 57th. The skyscraper that had stood on the corner, between 57th and 56th, had come down, blocking the intersection entirely. It must have collapsed last night—there was no snow on the debris, but it was ankle-deep on the ground all around it. There was occasional movement as rubble shifted. I looked through some of the wreckage. There was a bent mail trolley that wouldn’t push straight; a leather couch that stood on its side, not a scratch on it; a smashed television; an unbroken wineglass; a dismembered foot, as white as the snow.
    I backtracked east to get around, moving fast, keeping to the center of the road so I’d have time to run from any Chasers that might leap out of a dark storefront. I stopped at the next block. There was money blowing from a bank’s open door, a steady stream of worthless paper.
    I scanned the road