Jag kommer ihåg en novell från Asimovs eller Analogs på 1980-talet eller 1990-talet.
"Bright Light, Big City" , en kort historia av Greg Costikyan ; publicerad i Isaac Asimovs Science Fiction Magazine , februari 1991 , tillgänglig på Internet Archive ; tydligen aldrig återtryckt.
Terrorister tillkännager att de har en atombom i Manhattan, och staden är beordrad evakuerad.
So I left the office and went down to Mary's cubicle. Half a dozen people were clustered around—most of the department. Mary had a newsradio station on. ". . demanding one-hundred million dollars, the freeing of a list of 43 imprisoned terrorists world wide, and a formal apology from the United States government for last month's Djibouti incident," it said. "Mayor Cardinale has appealed for calm." And it cut to a scratchy tape of the mayor saying some damnfool thing.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"A nuke . . ." said Mary. She looked a little wan. "They . . ."
"A bunch of wackos claim they've got a hundred kiloton nuke somewhere in Manhattan," said Dave.
Huvudpersonen på jobbet på Manhattan kallar sin fru på sitt hem på New Jersey-sidan och berättar att hon ska gå till sina släktingar i Philadelphia och han kommer träffa henne där.
It took ten tries before I got through to Debbie. "Have you heard?" I said.
"Mike?" she said. "What's up?"
"Listen to me," I said. "Terrorists claim to have a nuclear bomb somewhere in New York."
"What?"
Debbie and I have an odd relationship. She's usually the one that calls the shots in the family. I don't mind. My ego is invested in other things. It was atypical of me to issue orders. Atypical enough, I hoped, that she wouldn't question them.
"Don't talk. Listen. Grab clothes for a couple of days. And baby stuff. If you can find the insurance papers for the house in a minute or less, take them. Get a recent statement for the money market account. Get the cat. Get in the car. Go on the Turnpike. Head south. Do it quickly. Do it now."
"What about you?"
"I'll meet you in Philadelphia."
Han tar tunnelbanan västerut till terminalen i New Jersey och letar efter transport.
The Newark PATH runs from the World Trade Center, in downtown Manhattan, through Journal Square, to Newark. I had a hell of a time switching to the Newark train. When it pulled into Journal Square, it was already packed to the gills.
I figured the next trains wouldn't be any better. So I squeezed between two cars and stood on the metal platform there. You're not supposed to do that. It's dangerous. There were already two people between the cars where I was.
But I got to Newark.
I got in line to buy a ticket for the train to Philadelphia. I'd have gone straight to the track, but they didn't have any trains posted for some reason.
It was a mob scene at the ticket window. It took me a good fifteen minutes before I could get to the front. "One way to Philly," I screamed through the glass. I had to scream; the station was jammed and noisy.
"No trains south," the attendant yelled back.
What? "Why not?"
"All available rolling stock is evacuating people from New York," he yelled. "We aren't picking up passengers anywhere else on the line."
Damn. Damn! Now what? What was I going to do now?
Han stjäl en cykel och cyklar till Philadelphia,
The store was closed. The last vestiges of sunlight were dissipating. And I debated morality. For fifteen seconds or so, anyway. Then I found a brick and heaved it through the plate glass.
Sorry bastard didn't even have a metal grate on his store. Wrong neighborhood to be trusting.
Did I want a mountain cycle? A touring cycle? What the hell did I know about bikes? I grabbed one, yanked it through the broken glass, perched on it, and pedaled madly away.
Vrid växelvis väster och söder vid korsningen.
Back roads, that was the ticket. There probably wouldn't be much traffic.
Of course, my knowledge of New Jersey's road net was limited to the Turnpike and the Garden State. I'd probably get hopelessly lost. But as long as I kept on south and west, I should be all right.
The street split. The southern branch was named South Orange Avenue. In Jersey, they often name streets after nearby towns. South Orange is west of Newark. It looked promising, so I took it.
[Det ser inte ut att han strängt växlar mellan väst och söder. Han pedaler genom South Orange, Short Hills, Summit, Murray Hill, Watchung och Skillman. Sedan bryter han in i en sluten bensinstation och stjäl bland annat en karta.]
Bomben exploderar bakom honom.
There was a big motherfucking peal of thunder. I started.
There was a glow on the horizon to the north. North and east. It hung there for ten seconds—twenty—thirty—I must have missed the flash; it would have been below the horizon. I was looking at the mushroom cloud, miles above the city. A firestorm, the very air was burning.
Han reser resten av dagen och hela natten och cyklar över Walt Whitman-bron till Philadelphia som det dyker upp.
Dawn found me wearily cycling over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. Commuter traffic was already beginning. Normal, everyday people driving to their normal, everyday Philadelphia jobs. As if nothing had happened. Terrorists blew up New York. Martha, pass the sugar. Oh, look, Oprah Winfrey's got a new boyfriend.