Creative Writing: The Old Holland Tunnel

One

The bombs first fell when I was six years old.

We had nowhere to hide because we lived in apartment buildings just like almost everyone else in Manhattan. It was a game of luck and hope. Our complex survived the trauma, as did most of southern Garden District, but pieces of debris from Village District and Canal District were left behind for months. I remember how sudden everything had been; it felt like living inside a snow globe turned upside down. You live in a perfect world and suddenly the sky is falling.
More than ten years later, thunder continues to scare the shit out of me. It 's raining pretty bad, and I suspect it 'll continue through the weekend. I peer through my ninth floor window to see the streets beginning to flood already. There 's a figure or two hurriedly crossing the street with

When I finally arrive to the entrance of the Old Holland Tunnel, it’s hard not to be dismayed by the massive destruction before me. The Russians bombed the hell out of all tunnels and bridges to other boroughs when they first attacked ten years ago, and nothing’s changed since then. The entrance is covered with enormous boulders. They almost look artificial in character, as if they were put there to keep the kids out. Obviously they haven’t been much help; there are slivers in between the stones where teens slip through regularly.
I frown in disappointment. There’s no reason to risk your life for a tunnel. Most of it’s underwater anyways, and the parts that aren’t are frequently swept and electrocuted when needed. I turn my eyes away from the entrance. There’s no point in trying to escape to New Jersey. This is our life now.
A wind picks up, so I draw my jacket closer to my face. I do a quick look-around and then set down my backpack so I can take out my map. I fold it among one of the hundreds of creases I’ve sloppily created and I begin to pencil in the missing streets. When I reach Leroy Street, my mouth drops in awe. There’s something