United States Of Apocalypse by Mark Tufo, Armand Rosamilia Page A

in the distance; Mike could barely make it out, as if it were being sounded by a lighthouse in a dense fog some miles away. And, like a ship attempting to return to safe harbor, Mike brushed the cobwebs from his mind, using the bleating horn as a reference point.
    “What…what the hell happened?” Mike looked down at the pile of shattered safety glass in his lap. “Why am I wearing bracelets?” He moved his hands up so he could see the handcuffs. Slowly at first, and then in a rush, it came back to him. “Tynes. Yo, Tynes, you all right?”
    The large cop was slouched over and to the side, his head resting on the huge broken pole that was now firmly entrenched where his partner would have been if cops still rode double.
    “Tynes. Come on, man.” Mike grabbed the back of the front seat and shook it. Nothing, not so much as a grimace. “Fuck man. Help!” Mike shouted to the people that were streaming by. Even for New York, the apathy they displayed was overwhelming. People too lost in their own grief and sense of impending doom did little more than give a cursory glance as they went about trying to preserve their own lives.
    Mike stuck his head out the destroyed window and gave one more shout, hoping that there was at least one decent person still out there. He was rewarded with a shower of sparks from the transformer suspended over his head. It swayed as the heavy cables that held it up struggled to do so without the added support.
    “Are you kidding me? None of you fine upstanding citizens is going to help?”
    “Fuck you, buddy. If you were so upstanding, you wouldn’t be in the back of that car,” a man dressed in a rumpled, yet expensive Armani suit said as he quickly passed by.
    “Fair point. You’re still a dick!”
    The man flipped the bird over his shoulder.
    Mike began to kick the seat. “Get the fuck up, man. I’ve got a bad feeling this day is going to get a lot hotter. And I ain’t talking weather here.” A portion of the heavy metal cage that separated the front from the back of the vehicle was rolled over and down. There was a gap almost a foot across from the pole to the bent steel. Mike reached through and shook Tynes. Still nothing. He got the distinct impression the man was still alive, but he was unable to tell just how injured he was. A glint of sunlight shone off the clasp attached to the officer’s left hip pocket. It was a round disk with a retractable metal cord, which Mike was sure had a key ring attached to it with, most likely, handcuff keys.
    “This sucks.” Mike was wriggling himself through the opening. His upper torso was mostly through as he did his best not to cut open his stomach on the sharp-edged protrusions the cage had produced. His side throbbed as he bent at an unnatural angle reaching for the pocket. His face was uncomfortably close to the officer’s. An irrational fear struck Mike that if Officer Tynes awoke as a zombie, he would easily be able to tear through the flesh on his mug.
    “Now that would suck...can’t imagine having your face ripped off. Good thing I got the keys,” he said triumphantly as he lunged and pulled the clasp free then fell back into the rear seat. There was a small panic as he nearly dropped them. After some fumbling, he manipulated them to the point he was able to unlock his left hand and then quickly his right. “Oh, that feels so good,” he said as he rubbed his wrists. His celebration was short lived as a five-hundred-pound transformer landed on the hood, lifting the rear of the car off the ground for a brief moment. His head banged first against the front seat and then the back before the car settled down under the heavy popping protestations of newly crushed metal.
    “Tynes, man, get your ass up. We need to get out of here!” Mike was heading for the smashed out window as electricity crackled along the hood. A reeking odor of gasoline assailed his nose as he first stuck his head out and then his body. He gripped the pole, and