Brendan considered himself a geek. Actually a lot of people did. He was a computer guy in his thirties who had maybe two girlfriends his entire life. He favored video games with his friends over nights out at clubs looking for girls. He loved the BBC America channel and wouldn’t think twice about staying up all night watching documentaries.
He attributed those documentaries to saving his life.
Civil war, Cold war, future wars, biological weapons, he loved those programs. He wanted to leave New York City, but he stayed an extra day, finding a great hiding spot in an office not far from the tunnel where the invaders were setting up what seemed to be a complex camp.
He dared not go into the tunnel, but he watched and took note of everything they brought it. He wrote it down in a tiny notebook.
When items and trucks stopped coming, it was time to make his way from the city.
He went higher in the building to see where they were and what direction he could take.
A car was out and by foot was his only means of travel.
Once he actually made it out of the inner city, Brendan found a bike and started to peddle.
From that moment on, he started to count how many times he was shot at.
In five days since emerging from the train wreckage, he made it out of New York City and New York state but not without being shot at nineteen times.
Twice on the bike he was shot at so he ditched it and ran. He was chased. He found a car but that wasn’t such a good idea; he was shot out there, too. While on foot… he was shot at. But the farther away he got from the state, the more he started to think he was safe, and he was. Despite how far he got, each passing day there were still the sounds of war. Gunfire, explosions, airplanes over head zipping by followed him.
He found a horse and deemed that his main means of transportation,
Then again, he had never ridden a horse and he fell off three times. He thought he might have broken his wrist.
But he kept moving on.
He ate only a minimal amount of food and had only sips of water.
Food was only what he could scavenge from homes and store, and most of them had already been ravaged.
He was trotting along on horseback when he saw the sign for Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
He thought it ironic and began thinking of Jesus. In fact he prayed. Maybe Bethlehem was a sign. It was four miles outside of Bethlehem that he spotted a truck.
He pulled on the reins of the horse to move him from sight and as he did a plane flew over and fired at the truck.
The truck pulled off the road and soldiers jumped out, flying into the trees, taking cover. They began loading anti-aircraft weapons and firing.
But there was something different about the soldiers that fired at the sky.
They were Americans.
Brendan breathed a sigh of relief.
He had been lucky thus far in not getting shot and he wasn’t going to take a chance on friendly fire. He hid himself in the brush after securing his horse and waited for a pause in shooting before he called out.
He kept calling out until someone heard him, acknowledged him and eventually found him.
He did it.
He made it from an attack zone, into territory occupied by allied forces and he did that all in his homeland.
They did not travel far and they traveled at night.
Foster would say the hardest part of their journey was crossing the bridge. It was probably the scariest time of his life.
After he and Judith had survived the massacre at the senior citizen recreation area, they stayed at the apartment for a day, got cleaned up and rested, filled their bellies and then moved on.
But it was the next day that they started to hear shots.
Not occasional shots but continuous firing.
It was far in the distance and to the north of them, so they travelled away from the gunfire.
They didn’t know who was firing or what they were firing at. They just wanted to be safe and move forward.
The least amount of gunfire was at night and in the early morning. By moving at those times, it was easier to stay out of sight.
He held Judith’s hand and arm and led her. They stayed quiet while they moved. They had to.
The problem was they didn’t have a clue where they were or how far they had come. They also didn’t know how far they had to go.
On the fifth night they crossed the Goethal Bridge right off Stanton Island and made it into New Jersey.
It was dark, it was late, and the stars were hidden behind a veil of smoke that carried a stench in the night air.
It was time to stop for the night. It was pushing morning and daylight was hiding time.
There was a food warehouse just past the bridge near the underpass for the interstate. Foster saw the signs for it and thought it would be a safe place stay.
He brought them around the back to the loading dock area. One of the garage style doors was partially open.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” asked Judith.
“I don’t know,” Foster replied. “But it’s shelter and maybe food. We haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday.”
