Lembro-me de uma pequena história de Asimov ou Analog na década de 1980 ou 1990.
"Luz brilhante, cidade grande" , um conto de Greg Costikyan ; publicado em Revista Science Fiction de Isaac Asimov , fevereiro de 1991 , disponível no Internet Archive ; aparentemente nunca reimpresso.
Terroristas anunciam que têm uma bomba atômica em Manhattan, e a cidade é obrigada a ser evacuada.
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.
O protagonista no trabalho em Manhattan liga para a esposa em sua casa no lado de Nova Jersey e diz a ela para ir aos parentes dela na Filadélfia e ele a encontrará lá.
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."
Ele pega o metrô para o oeste até o terminal em Nova Jersey e procura transporte.
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?
Ele rouba uma bicicleta e roda para a Filadélfia,
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.
virando alternadamente para oeste e sul nos cruzamentos.
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.
[Não parece que ele está estritamente alternando entre o oeste e o sul. Ele pedala por South Orange, Short Hills, Summit, Murray Hill, Watchung e Skillman. Então ele invade um posto de gasolina fechado e rouba, entre outras coisas, um mapa.]
A bomba explode atrás dele.
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.
Ele viaja o resto do dia e a noite toda e atravessa a ponte de Walt Whitman até a Filadélfia, quando amanhece.
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.