Year One by Nora Roberts

hand again. “Together. We can do it together. Focus, Lana, you know how. Focus on bringing it down, or we’re done.”
    He thought too much of her abilities, of her spine. But his hand held tight to hers, and she felt his power vibrate. Whatever she had, she pushed toward him.
    She trembled from the effort, felt everything inside her shift and … expand. And with a jolt, like blowing on a candle, the span began to lower.
    â€œIt’s working. But—”
    â€œStay focused. We’re going to make it.”
    But they were going too fast, and the span was lowering so slowly. Behind them, sirens screamed.
    Together, she thought. Live or die. Closing her eyes, she pushed harder.
    She heard a thud , felt the car jump and shake.
    â€œLift it!” Max shouted.
    Through the buzzing in her ears, the buzzing through her body, she pushed again. Opened her eyes. For a moment, she thought they were flying.
    She whipped around, saw the span lifting, foot by foot behind them. The pursuing car screeched to a stop at the far edge.
    â€œMax. Where is this coming from? How can we do these things? This power, this kind of power, it’s terrifying and…”
    â€œExhilarating? A shift of balance, an opening. I don’t know, but can’t you feel it?”
    â€œYes. Yes.” An opening, she thought, and so much more.
    â€œWe got out,” Max reassured her. He brought her hand to his lips, but didn’t slow down as they zoomed over the tracks. “We’ll find a way over. Get some water out of the pack, take some deep breaths. You’re shaky.”
    â€œPeople … people are trying to kill us.”
    â€œWe won’t let them.” When he turned his head to look at her, his eyes burned dark gray and fierce. “We’ve got a long way to go, Lana, but we’re going to make it.”
    She let her head fall back against the headrest, closed her eyes to try to steady her pulse, to clear the fear haze from her mind.
    â€œIt’s so strange,” she murmured. “All the time I’ve lived in New York, this is the first time I’ve been to the Bronx.”
    His laugh surprised her as it rolled out, so rich, so easy. “Well, it’s a hell of a first trip.”

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    Jonah Vorhies wandered the chaos of the ER. People still streamed or stumbled in, as if the building itself offered miracles. They came in hacking and puking, bleeding and dying. Most from the Doom, some from the Doom’s by-product of violence.
    GSWs, knife wounds, broken bones, head injuries.
    Some sat quietly, hopelessly, like the man with the boy of about seven in his lap. Or the woman with glassy, feverish eyes praying with a rosary. Death spread so thick in them, so black, he knew they wouldn’t last the day.
    Others raged, screaming, demanding, spittle flying out of snarling mouths. He thought it a shame their last act in life would be one of such ugliness.
    Fights broke out regularly, but rarely lasted long. The virus so destroyed the body that even a world champ would drop after giving or receiving a couple of punches.
    The medical staff, what was left of them, did what they could.There were beds available, he knew. Oh, there were plenty of beds, open ORs, treatment rooms. But not enough doctors, nurses, interns, orderlies to treat and stitch and staunch.
    No beds in the morgue—he knew that, too. No vacancies there, and bodies piled up like grim Lincoln Logs.
    Most of the medical staff? Dead or fled. Patti, his partner of four years. Patti, the mother of two who’d loved head-banging rock, horror movies (the grislier the better), and Mexican food—don’t spare the Tabasco—had fled, kids in tow, to Florida during week two. She’d fled because her father—avid golfer living the good life in Tampa—had died, and her mother—retired teacher, literacy volunteer, ardent knitter—was dying.
    He’d seen the Doom in