The City That Forever Sleeps

By Ben Rawlings

Imagine waking up in the future to find you’re all alone. All around you, New York City stands shattered and empty, the streets deserted, the buildings in ruins. The end of the world has come and gone and left nothing but you. You have no memory of who you are, no memory of what has happened.

Now imagine you’re not alone.

For one man, this nightmare becomes a reality, a world of desolation and dangers beyond his imagining. Haunted by ghosts from his past, hunted by the city’s new inhabitants, he strives to survive against the odds, and with the help of an unlikely friend, he keeps his eyes on the horizon, waiting to be rescued.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Rawlings
• Release date: Mar 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310380327

Ben Rawlings

Born in 1986, Ben Rawlings grew up in the suburbs of Melbourne. He has studied many things, from woodwork to animation, but has always had a passion for storytelling. He began writing short stories during his school years, but moved on to novels at the age of 21. Sadly, many of his works laid unfinished or untouched for several years until he finally picked up the proverbial pen in his late 20’s and brought them back to life.

Book preview

A gunshot sounds, a loud crack echoes through the empty expanse and suddenly everything is cast in darkness. There is only black. And him. But once more, he is all alone. That drifting feeling returns, sweeping him away through the shadowy nothingness and as he floats inertly through the endless dreamscape, he feels numb. Empty. Void of any kind of substance. He is but a viewer. An observer. A bodiless entity trapped in an eternal nightmare. He’s not sure how many times he’s watched it; he lost count long ago. Wherever he is, he has no sense of time, no sense of anything. The numbness takes over and for a split second he feels peaceful, utterly serene. And then, from nowhere, the black veil falls and just as suddenly as it stopped, it starts all over again.

And he is no longer alone.

In the shroud of night, a silhouette stands barely discernible from the darkness that surrounds it. A man. And in the man’s hand, a 10mm semi automatic. Even in the low light, the shape is unmistakable. The moonlight glistens off its side, dancing across the shadows of the dimly lit alley as the man’s hand softly trembles. Is it fear that rattles him . . . or eagerness?

The creature at his feet moans. A craven, lesser man, unable to mask the terror he feels as he clutches his wounded shoulder and recoils as far into the darkness of the corner as he is physically able. The first man towers over him, a dark figure eclipsing the light of the distant street. His head hooded, his face in shadows, he is but a statue of doom, a presealed fate. He is Death.

Clutching the gun, the man pulls back the slide, the barrel warm to the touch. It has been used once before. The subsequent click as the slide snaps back into place echoes about the alley. It is heaven to his ears, the promise of the end.

He knows the man cowering before him, just as the cowering man knows him, though neither man had foreseen this night. Yet he had dreamt of it countless times before – oh, how he had dreamt of it – but never had he imagined he would get to live it. He gazes down into the eyes of his victim, those black, beady little eyes. He wants to see them one last time, to savour in their disquiet, their frightened anticipation. The wounded man stares back at him. He knows what’s coming.

Raising his quivering hand, the hooded man points the gun down at the petrified mound of worthlessness and he can feel his hatred climb with every second, every heartbeat. The moment has come. No more pain, no more agony. He would wash it all away with one simple movement of his finger.

Please . . . the feeble man beseeches, crawling forward onto his knees. He clutches the hooded man’s jacket in desperation. Please, I beg you.

But the hooded man looks down on this pathetic sight not with pleasure or triumph, but with disgust. He kicks the man off of him, but it’s no use. The wounded man comes crawling back.

I’ll give you anything, he cries again, literally begging for his life. His cheeks shimmer in the half-light. Whatever you want. Please.

But there is nothing he could give that would undo his fate.

The hooded man places the muzzle of the gun against the pleading man’s forehead and watches as his eyes squeeze closed in fear. The only thing I want from you, he says calmly, is your life.

1

Everything was blue, an eerie incandescent blue. Only half aware of the cerulean tinge staining his thoughts, he pondered his existence in this nightmare realm, the dream still vivid in his mind. What did it mean? Who were these two men? And why was he reliving this horrific scene over and over again? It was as if someone had left a record playing and the needle was skipping backward over the groove, the dream stuck in a loop.

It wasn’t until he realised the dream had stopped that he finally noticed the blue. It was a clinical colour, cold and unfeeling, and it cast long shadows across the room, dousing everything nearby with its ghostly hue and leaving all else as black as night. As his eyes slowly parted, taking in the unnatural colour of the light around him, his mind slowly roused in an effort to recall where he was. He had been caught in the dream for so long now, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been awake. Though the room was barely lit, he was still blinded by the glare, but this was clearly not sunlight he was witnessing, filtering in through half-closed blinds to inform him it was a new day. Sunlight wasn’t blue. No, and he could feel no soft bed sheets beneath him either, no pillow underneath his head. He wasn’t in bed. This wasn’t his home. What was going on?

Suddenly more alert, he made to bring his hands up to his eyes to rub away the dreariness he felt drowning his thoughts, but the movement felt strangely drawn out, sluggish even. He slowly clenched and unclenched his fists, watching the anomalous movements through squinting eyes, which were still heavy and beginning to burn. His whole body felt light and yet unwieldy at the same time. It took no effort to remain upright, yet more than he felt he had to move. It was almost as if he were drifting in a vacuum, or floating underwater. Underwater? The thought lingered a moment in his mind. His entire body was ice cold and wet, and he was numb from head to toe. He could see his fingers still moving before his eyes, but he couldn’t feel them.

All of a sudden he lurched forward in shock, his throat closing over. Instinctively his hands shot straight to his mouth, yet they lagged behind his panicked thoughts, seemingly unaware of the urgency. When they finally reached his face, it was only to find some sort of breathing device covering it. He made to cough, but instead found himself gagging. Whatever it was, it was cutting off his airway. He was suffocating!

Grasping at the sides of the device, he tried to dig his fingers between the rim and his cheeks, but the seal was airtight. He would never get it off in time. Quickly, he began feeling all about the strange apparatus hoping to find some sort of release, but his hands found something else, some kind of tubing. The air supply perhaps? He didn’t have time for conjecture. Whatever this thing was, it was no longer working. The pipe that had once fed him oxygen was now depriving him of it. Small speckles of light were beginning to form in the corners of his eyes and he could feel himself growing light-headed. He would pass out soon if he didn’t get it off.

Grabbing the tube tight with both hands, he pulled with all the force he could, wrenching his head backward. There was a second’s strain as the suction pulled at his face, his cheeks stretching free of his jaw, then an audible pop signalled its release. But it wasn’t over. Retching, he kept pulling and pulling as more and more of the tubing came sliding up his throat and out of his mouth. As the final length emerged – after what felt like forever – and he felt his throat relax once more, he gasped for breath, clutching his chest in pain. But still, no air came. Instantly, his mouth and throat were full of water and he was once again choking and gagging. He was underwater. But how and why didn’t matter, now he was drowning!

He tried to stop himself from inhaling, he knew it would only make it worse, but he no longer had control of his lungs. More and more water poured into his mouth and he could feel the last remnants of air burst from his nostrils in a vicious stream of bubbles. The blue glow of the room gradually faded away as he felt his mind beginning to shut down. He forced his arms forward against the glass in front of him, pushing with all the adrenaline he could draw on, ramming and pounding the glass in one last desperate bid of hope. But the glass just wouldn’t give, or he just didn’t have the strength. Either way, he wasn’t getting out.

His eyes slowly fell closed and his hands floated back down to his sides. He knew it was all over, that this was the end. This room, with its strange blue light, and him suffocating, choking on mouthful after mouthful of viscous water; this would be the last thing he saw . . . this would be his last ever memory . . .

Haaarrgghh!

Choking and spluttering, he gave one final cough and a litre of water splashed across the floor. His throat burned and his chest ached so bad, it felt like there was somebody standing on it. Grasping at the hard tiled floor, which was no warmer than the water had been and was now also half an inch deep with it, he reached out his arm and rolled himself onto his side. His teeth were trying to chatter, but his body seemed to lack the energy needed, and there was an acerbic taste in his mouth that reminded him of curdled milk. Liquid dribbled from between his lips and he gagged a few more times as small amounts of it rose back up his windpipe. Spitting out as much as he could, he let himself loll backward onto his back as, gasping and panting, he waited for some amount of strength to return to his body.

He gazed up at the ceiling, a high industrial style ceiling with exposed beams, large metallic air ducts and a number of low hanging fluorescent lights, all of which were off. The ceiling was as dark as the rest of the room, which seemed to be barely lit at all.

Lifting his neck from the floor, he raised his eyes and tilted his head back to see the fading blue glow above him. The sight of the light and what it was coming from made him forget his weariness briefly and he rolled over once again, this time raising himself onto his hands and knees. Sitting upright, he looked up at the big ominous tank above him, a large glass cylinder not much bigger than himself, leaning backward at an angle. It seemed strangely familiar, though he wasn’t quite sure why, until the realisation suddenly occurred to him that he had been looking at it before, only moments ago . . . but from the other side of the glass. More of the gooey liquid that lined the floor dripped from the rim at the bottom of the tank, where there was a large steel hatch hanging open against the floor. That must have been how he got out. The tank had drained itself, purging all its contents, himself included.

Raising a hand from the floor, he eyed the strange, sticky slime that covered it, stretching between his fingers like melted mozzarella. It was clear and translucent, but it was by no means water. It had to be some kind of bio-fluid. How he knew that, he wasn’t sure, but his mind seemed to recognise it. And this large glass tank before him was some kind of preservation device, a machine to store humans. But why he had been in one was just as much a puzzle to him as how he had managed to get out. Staring about the room, he realised it was not the only tank there either. There were fourteen in all, though none of them turned on, none of them occupied. At least not by anyone living.

Many of the tanks were smashed, two had barely a shard of glass left of them, some – those still intact – were open like his, and several more lay horizontal on the floor, having fallen and become unplugged from their computer systems. In the tank nearest to him, barely two metres away, lay the rotting remains of some misfortunate soul, black and withered and beyond recognition. When the tank had fallen over, the poor person probably had no idea they were even dying. At least they wouldn’t have suffered.

Slowly, unsteadily, he climbed to his feet, struggling to keep them planted firmly on the slippery tiled floor. Placing one hand against the glass of his tank, he stared across the room to an open doorway and the dark corridor beyond, all of which was grey and metallic and appeared very uninviting. From what he could discern, he was in some sort of medical facility – a laboratory, perhaps – though where and why, he had no idea. And where was everybody else? There were no lights on, besides the dimming glow from the fluorescents of his tank, and no other signs of life besides himself. Was the place deserted? Had the facility been abandoned? And most bewildering of all, why had he been left there?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Perhaps he could recall what had happened. Perhaps he might remember where everybody had gone. But it was no use. He couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t even remember the facility. Nothing was familiar.

Sighing, he fought from becoming frustrated. Maybe he could try something else. Perhaps he could think of his last memory, the last thing he could recall from before he had awoken. He closed his eyes again and concentrated hard, straining to recollect any titbit of information. An image, a voice, anything that would help him understand what was going on. But no matter how hard he thought, nor how hard he scrunched his eyes shut, no memories came. He couldn’t remember where he was, he couldn’t remember where he lived, he couldn’t even remember his own name. He was a stranger, even to himself.

Deciding to put a stop to what was never going to happen, he resigned himself to the idea that his memories would return when they were good and ready. Perhaps they only needed a little persuasion. So instead, he decided to take a look around. Maybe something there might rouse his memories or, at the very least, he might learn something about who he was, or what this strange place was that he was in.

He made to push off from the tank and make his way slowly to the door, but no sooner had he leant to move than he noticed something he hadn’t before. At the bottom of the tank, wrapped around the curved glass tube, there was a plaque of some kind. Carefully, he knelt down to examine its surface. It might have had his name written across it. But as he squinted at the small embossed characters that were hardly distinguishable in the now near-darkness, he was disappointed to find that it wasn’t a name at all. It was a number. #001283. What did it mean? Was it his number? Is that what he was known by? Did he not have a name?

Suddenly the light on the tank flickered and died, casting the room in a sudden and final darkness. Whatever battery or generator had been powering the tank had at long last ran out of power. Perhaps that was why he had awoken. The tank mustn’t have had enough power to sustain his vitals any longer and so it began shutting down its processes one by one, causing him to rouse and, eventually, be released.

Stumbling forward through the darkness, he slipped to his knees and crawled toward the door, or at least where he had remembered it being, as it was now so dark that he couldn’t make out any shapes at all. After a few seconds of feeling about and grasping nothing but empty air, his hands finally found the door frame and he pulled himself through. He made his way down the hall, following the wall on his left, until, after passing several open doorways, he saw a light.

He began heading straight toward it, a little too fast maybe, as his ankle struck a fallen chair and he tumbled face first to the ground. But, unscathed, he climbed back to his feet and staggered on, until he eventually came to a small room but half the size of the room he had awoken in. Bright white light poured down across the room from a large skylight in the centre of the roof, making the dull yellow paint of the walls seem brighter and less dreary than they might have otherwise seemed. Across the walls on either side of the room were countless metal lockers. This must have been a storage room of some kind for the people that worked there, where they left their personal belongings while they were at work. With a sudden shiver, he looked down at himself and realised he was standing there still naked and dripping wet. Perhaps he could find something to wear.

Heading to the nearest locker, he made to open it when he realised that there was no handle. Instead, the only two things on the entire door was a flat black panel in the middle of its surface and another metal plaque just above, this one much smaller than the one on the tank had been, though with the number #001269 etched on it. These lockers weren’t for the staff, he realised.

Curious, he stumbled along the wall of lockers until he came to the very last one in the row, #001283. This locker was meant for him. He froze as he considered what things could possibly lay inside, what answers he might find on the other side of this small metal door. His personal belongings, his personal files . . . his identity.

Now, if he could only open it.

He eyed the smooth black panel as if it had some sort of tiny, miniscule writing on it, studying it, trying to understand its purpose. Clearly it had something to do with how to open the locker, but what its function was he could only guess at. It looked like sum kind of small, flat computer screen, yet it was entirely blank. Maybe it was activated by touch? He poked it with his finger and a sharp red light jumped about his fingertip. He leapt back in fright, frozen for a moment, before he realised it was only a light and his finger was unharmed. The screen had responded to his touch. Cautiously, he touched it again, this time holding his fingertip against its surface, and a thin line of red light quickly swooped down the panel, illuminating his finger. He laughed at himself. It was only a hand scanner.

Suddenly more relaxed, his mind was once again back on the locker itself and what secrets it contained. He held his breath as he raised his hand to the door. He knew now how to open it, how simple it was. This scanner was meant for him, and him alone, and just as he was meant to do, he placed the palm of his hand against the panel and watched as the thin red light scanned his hand from fingertip to wrist. A latch released somewhere inside the locker and the door swung free.

He pulled the door open, his heart racing, but to his dismay, no answers laid waiting for him inside. No belongings. No personal information. Nothing at all, save a small white towel hanging from a hook and a pile of neatly folded white cotton clothes. Burying his disappointment, he quickly grabbed the towel and began wiping himself down, removing layer after layer of the sticky, wet bio-fluid from his skin. He made a note that he would have a shower as soon as he could find one, but for now just getting the slime off of him was enough. He grabbed the first garment off the pile, a thin, white short-sleeved shirt, and threw it on, then quickly dressed in the matching drawstring pants. What, no shoes, no socks, no underwear? He felt like he was at some kind of day spa. But on the plus side, at least it wasn’t a hospital gown. Placing the towel back on its hook, he closed the locker. Now that he was dressed, he had to work out where he was . . . and how to get out.

He turned to his left to see a large white diagram on the wall beside him. It was an evacuation plan, a map. Precisely what he needed. But studying the layout of the facility, he realised it was a lot bigger than he had first anticipated. The corridors branched on forever in each direction and there were multiple levels to the facility. According to the map, he was on the third floor up, level B6. But, if the B stood for what he thought it did, he wasn’t on the third floor up at all, he was on the sixth floor down. He was underground.

Turning, he realised that couldn’t possibly be a skylight above him, not if he was that far down. That had to be artificial light. But if the power to his tank had gone out, why was this light still on? Was it running on some kind of back up power? How long had it been on for?

Realising he wasn’t going to find any answers where he was, he turned back to the map and began searching for the nearest stairwell. He doubted the elevators would still be operational.

He was in luck. The stairs were only at the end of the hall and around the corner slightly. He could make it there no problem. But that would be the easy part. He still had to make it up the stairs in total darkness and then all the way along the uppermost floor to the corridor that ended in the word EXIT on the diagram. It looked to be well over a hundred metres of twists and turns and he knew he would easily get lost in the maze of indiscernible hallways and intersections if he didn’t memorise his way, so he allowed himself the time to study the map over and over again, all the while reciting in his mind the sequence of turns he needed to make and the distances he needed to count.

Once he was sure he knew the way off by heart, he headed back to the door. He glanced up and down the corridor in both directions. Both left and right looked the same, but he knew he need to go right to get to the stairs, so he warily made his way out of the room and followed the wall to the end of the hall, and as he felt his way across to the start of the stairwell, the questions that had plagued his mind earlier somehow found their way back into his head. Over and over he had already asked himself where he was and why he was there, but this time an even bigger question, and perhaps the most important, had suddenly occurred to him. When was he? This facility had clearly been shutdown, long since abandoned. He was obviously the last person left alive in there, the only survivor of whatever had happened. How many years had he been in this building? How many years had he spent in that tank?

How many decades?

Two large steel doors stood before him, resembling something of a bulkhead. He couldn’t tell what it was, but something about the doors gave him the impression that they would be many inches thick, like the blast doors of a fallout shelter. But whether or not they were designed to keep something in, or keep something out, he wasn’t sure. Nor did he really care. He had been wandering hopelessly in utter darkness for over fifteen minutes; he just wanted to get them open.

In the dim light of the small EXIT sign above the doors – which must have been connected to the same source of power as that mysterious skylight, as it was the only light on the entire floor he had come across that was still on – he saw a small numerical panel next to the door. Ten little buttons sat below a small rectangular screen no bigger than his finger, the buttons laid out in two rows marked 1 – 5 and 6 – 0. It seemed quite old-fashioned given the surroundings of the facility, which appeared rather advanced in its technologies, but considering it seemed to operate the heavy steel doors, perhaps that was the point. He only hoped there was still power running through the panel as well, otherwise he’d be trapped.

He raised his hand to press a button, but paused as he realised he had no idea what button to press. What was he thinking? He didn’t know the code to the door, nor of how many digits the code consisted. He knew of no numbers relating to the place he was in, nor anything of the place at all. He had no memories of any numbers because he had no memories. He knew no numbers of any significance whatsoever.

Actually, there was one number he knew . . .

It was worth a shot. Slowly, he began typing in 0 – 0 – 1 – 2 – 8 – 3. The second he hit the last digit, the display flashed green and a loud groaning noise reverberated from inside the wall, then suddenly the large metal doors began to creak apart and, slowly but surely, light began to flood through the crack.

It felt like it took forever for the doors to finally open, but by the time they were open wide enough for him to fit through, he sucked in his breath and squeezed through sideways. Staggering, he felt the sudden coldness of concrete beneath his feet and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light. He had been in the dark for so long. But piece by piece, his surroundings slowly came into view and staring about in the dim light, he saw endless rows of parked cars and concrete pillars all around. He was in an underground parking lot.

There was a loud clunk and he turned to see that the doors behind him had fully opened and locked into place, resting flush with their housings. Then all of a sudden, there was nothing but silence. Turning back, he took a few cautious steps forward into the middle of the lane and stared down the aisles of cars. The car park was full. There didn’t appear to be an empty lot in it. So many cars and yet no people. Where was everybody?

Hello . . . he called out, his throat still dry. His voice bounced of the thick concrete walls, echoing countless times over. But there was no reply.

He walked a little further, heading toward the light, which was coming down the ramp from the level above. The way out had to be up there somewhere, that light filtering down looked like sunlight! But before he could take another step forward, another loud clunking noise resounded about the parking lot and he turned in time to see the large steel doors begin to close again.

Panicking, he quickly raced back toward them, but he had already walked too far and by the time he reached them, he could barely fit his arm between them. With one cruel and final boom, the doors were sealed, and he was sealed out. Rushing to the keypad beside the door, he quickly entered his code once more, but this time the small display flashed red and he was met by nothing, no sounds from within, no sounds at all. The doors stood still and silent. His code had been designed to let him out, but not to let him back in. He wasn’t sure exactly why he felt it was a bad thing that he was suddenly locked outside, especially after he had spent so long trying to get there, but he still couldn’t help but feel it. Something out there felt wrong. Where were the people?

Sighing, he resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t getting back in, so he decided to take the only other obvious course of action; head up. He walked through level after level of car park before he finally saw proper daylight, pure rays of sunlight raining down on the street at the far end of the lot. But as he made his way down the final rows of cars, his feeling that something was wrong suddenly felt stronger than ever.

He sidestepped around the tollgate and stepped out onto the street, its warm surface stinging the soles of his bare feet, but just as he emerged from the shadows of the parking garage, he was suddenly blinded by the intensity of the light. A stabbing pain shot through his retinas as he covered his eyes. They weren’t used to such brightness and were evidently reacting far too slow. But after a few seconds, he slowly opened his eyes again, first squinting, then slowly allowing his eyelids to part further and further, until his eyes eventually adjusted and he could see the world around him. But the astounding sight that met his eyes was beyond all belief. How could this be?

2

The asphalt beneath his feet continued to burn as he stood in the middle of the street, but his brain didn’t react to the pain. It didn’t seem to notice, or just didn’t care. It was too overwhelmed with the impossible sight before it, a sight it could never have dreamt it would ever see.

His breath caught in his throat, he turned full circle and stood in awe of the vast and immense city around him, a city of tall buildings and towering skyscrapers. But it wasn’t the city itself that was so breathtaking. It was the condition of it. The city lay in waste. Walls were cracked, windows smashed, and some buildings looked like they had had their top floors completely blown apart. Further up the way to the left, there was even what looked like a whole ten-storey tower, somehow still intact, fallen across the street, blocking the entire six lane road from curb to curb. Cars lay everywhere about the streets, empty and abandoned, their doors left open. And they weren’t parked orderly either. They were sprawled about the street in disarray, some smashed into others, others turned sideways across multiple lanes. And all throughout the streets, pieces of newspaper and trash blew about in the breeze like modern-day tumbleweeds, the streets littered with rubbish for as far as the eye could see. In every direction, devastation. It was as if Armageddon had come and gone, and this was all that was left.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. This had to be some kind of trick, some kind of illusion. Maybe he was dreaming? But he knew it wasn’t so. No matter how hard he wished it was a dream, he knew that he was awake and that what he was seeing could not be simply wished away. There was nothing left.

He started walking. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but did it really matter? As he reached a crossroads, he gazed up at the tall, simple street sign that stood alone on the corner. According to the sign, he was on the corner of 7th Avenue and West 42nd Street. He was in New York. This was Midtown Manhattan! How he knew that, again, he had no idea. Had he been there before? Everything seemed strangely familiar.

He peered around the corner. Every direction looked the same, every street just as bad as the next. Dust and debris stained the roads a lifeless grey and, all about, cafes and shop fronts lay in shambles. He could see Times Square off in the distance, empty and deserted, no different to the rest of the fractured cityscape. From what he could tell, the city had been attacked. Bombed, perhaps? There was no evidence of an earthquake, no cracks in the pavement. It seemed like everybody had just upped and left, and quite clearly in a hurry too. But if this was the aftermath of a bomb blast, how could it have created such destruction, and at such a large scale? The magnitude of the damage was unimaginable. Could New York have been hit with a nuclear bomb?

It was inconceivable. The idea alone sounded outrageous, but the evidence was all around him. Was this New York City in nuclear fallout? And if so, did that mean that the air was toxic with radiation? He couldn’t feel anything. The air seemed fine. In fact, it tasted fresh. After the stale air of that underground bunker, the air outside even tasted somehow sweet. But if there was radiation in the air, would he even be able to tell? He probably wouldn’t know until he began to suffer the effects. But then again, how long ago did all this happen? New York was now nothing but ruins. Could he have really been down there for decades? Centuries, even? If so, the radiation had probably dissipated a long time ago. He was probably safe. Though he somehow didn’t feel any better from that thought.

A few metres away, a white Toyota sat beside the curb, all four of its doors wide open. Curious, he made his way over to it and sat down in the passenger seat. The air inside was even warmer than it was out and the seats were covered in a thin layer of powder, what looked like a mixture of ash and grime. Other than that, the car seemed perfectly normal. Some CDs were scattered on the floor in front of the passenger seat and there was half a packet of gum sitting in the centre console. Even the keys were still in the ignition. Who would leave a car like this? It had to have been abandoned during the attack on the city.

Leaning across, he grabbed the keys and gave them a turn. Nothing happened. He tried again, but still nothing happened. Of course, the battery was dead. The doors had been left open for God knows how long and the battery would have been drained in days from the interior light. How he knew this, he wasn’t sure though. He seemed to remember a lot of simple things about his past, but nothing at all relating to him.

Climbing out of the car, he looked across at a black