City of Savages (17 page)

“It’s just—” He lets his words hang between us for a while. “My mum was the big reading advocate. She’d still walk me to school every morning, even with England’s shelter-in-place. Still kept rallying for textbooks, even after the city declared a state of emergency. Petitioning until there was nothing, and no one, left to petition.” He gives me one of those lopsided smiles again, but it doesn’t strong-arm his sadness. “I miss her, is all.”

“I’m so sorry, Ryder.”

I want to ask him so many questions. I want him to share whatever happened to his mom, to his family, to
him
 . . . with me. I want him to trust me.

I want him to like me.

Before second-guessing myself, I whisper, “We’ve lost a parent too. My dad. I mean it was a long time ago, obviously. And I don’t remember him, so I know it’s not the same.”

I look at Ryder for a second, trying to judge his reaction, but he keeps his face neutral.

“So it’s not like I miss him, but—I miss him
for
my mom, if that makes any sense. I wish she had someone, so she didn’t have to raise us without him. It’s—it’s a hole in her I wish I could fill.”

I know I’m reaching, blubbering on about secondhand pain, when Ryder’s is real, immediate. He must think I’m clueless. Insensitive—a self-centered little girl on a sheltered island.

“That’s exactly what it feels like,” he whispers. “A hole.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to—”

“It’s okay,” he whispers to the window. “Mum was beautiful. Smart as a whip, strong, rebellious. She took the state of emergency as a guideline. And when the bombing finally died down, after everything was in pieces and survivors started leaving to see what was left of the mainland, we’d go on these
tours
 . . . walks through London’s bones to make sure I didn’t forget the past.”

Ryder’s story pinches me with something: longing . . . maybe even jealousy. I picture him with his mother, walking through the skeleton of a foreign city, her whispering well-kept secrets, giving him the gift of a dying world. Secrets Phee and I needed to figure out for ourselves. Secrets we needed to steal a journal to uncover. On cue, Mom’s mantra springs from a well-worn river in my mind:
Sometimes the past should stay in the past.

“Was it just the two of you?”

Ryder nods. “My dad was deployed early on, not long after Britain joined the war effort,” he says. “When he died, Sam just . . .
changed
. He closed up. It became all about joining the marines, going to war, moving on. He was out the door way before he actually went to Dover for training.”

“So you just had your mom.”

“And she just had me.” Ryder rubs his eyes. “You ever look backward and wonder how you missed something?” He laughs a different laugh—this one’s bitter and sharp. “I can’t believe I didn’t see what was going on, having a mom scream at police, and holler and run through minefields. A mom who took me on walking tours of a bombed-out city. I just thought it was us . . . being explorers. A game. Our own private world.”

A wave of tingles hits me, right at the top of my spine. I think I know where this is going.

“Sam put all the pieces together for me, after, when he finally came home. Things must have deteriorated without her medicine, he told me—Sam hadn’t even known about her diagnosis, until he checked the cabinets. He told me it wasn’t our fault. That it wasn’t even her at the end, just sadness and mania.” Ryder turns to me. “But it still drives
me
mad, that I didn’t see it. Our last conversation plays on replay in my mind, over and over. Mum saying she couldn’t handle it. That she couldn’t see her baby wither away.”

I want to say—
do
—so many things. I have an uncontrollable urge to grab Ryder, hold him, but I force my hands to stay where they are. All I can do is ask, “When?”

“She was depressed for a couple years after the last of the London air raids. She took . . . her life last summer. Carved a hole right out of me.” He runs his fingers along the windowsill. “Sam pretends his isn’t there. Sam just keeps . . . fighting, like he can avenge her and Dad. Like he can somehow . . . escape all of it, if we just keep moving forward.”

“I’m so sorry, Ryder,” I say again. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

“I can’t either,” he says. “Not really. It’s almost like . . . like I shut that Ryder down. I didn’t understand.” His voice is controlled, even, like he’s reciting from a script, speaking for someone else. “I couldn’t accept it, so I didn’t. I just locked it away.”

What he’s said makes me think again of my own mom—how she keeps her pain in an airless jar, preserved but inaccessible. “But you and Sam must talk about her?”

“We don’t talk like that.” Ryder shrugs. “There’s stuff we just can’t say to each other.”

I nod, even though I wouldn’t survive if I didn’t talk about something like that with Phee.

“It actually feels really good saying this stuff out loud,” he says, “just to hear it. To remind myself it’s real.” Ryder looks at me, as if only now realizing that I’m not just a reflection, a character in a therapeutic dream. “The more I see, the more I think that I just can’t make sense of any of it. The world’s a mess, right? Death, destruction, lies.” Then he gives another bitter laugh. “And now cannibals.”

I nod again, knowing I should tell him we should get some rest, and end the conversation. But he’s touched on something I just can’t nod my head and agree with, especially the more I learn about what really happened here, to Mom and everyone else in this city. And despite the fact that I know I might isolate Ryder, upset him to the point of no return, I say, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“What?”

“That the world is just some random, messed-up place?” I break his gaze, a flush starting to crawl over my cheeks. “People make choices, and those choices add up to the world we see. Nothing’s random . . . nothing’s
senseless
.” I can feel my eyes start to pinch as they do when I get emotional, and so I turn my face away from his, embarrassed. “And right or wrong, what we do—our choices—matter.”

Of course, I know my world’s been small. A couple of square miles, tops. Less than five hundred people. A few momentary glimpses into other worlds—some real, some fabricated—worlds of good and evil, heroes and monsters. But I know, deep in my heart I
know
, that things can’t just be written off as the product of chance, no rhyme or reason to any of it. “And I think you believe that, too,” I finally add, no more than a whisper.

Ryder doesn’t say anything for a long time.

I think I’ve ruined it, whatever “it” is, the beginnings of a friendship, or maybe more, all with my big, fat, self-righteous mouth. How do I know what he believes in, really? Because I have a hunch? Because, through this warm cocoon of a conversation, I feel like I actually know him?

He doesn’t want to hear my theories, least of all when he’s so fragile.

But then, slowly, an off-center grin breaks across his face.

“I knew I was going to like you,” he says, “Skyler Miller.”

Skylah Millah
.

My ears feel like they’re on fire, and my face must be crimson by now.

Ryder changes the subject. We get back to books—thrillers this time.

Horror stories.

Even some romances he begrudgingly admits he’s read.

We talk until the rain comes down so hard, the highways become rivers. I don’t remember falling asleep against the window. The last thing I remember is debating
The Great Gatsby
versus
Gone with the Wind
.

25    PHEE

The rain keeps us cooped up inside all day—but it doesn’t bother me, since I’m so tired and beat up, all I want to do is sleep for a week. Plus, these black mats and blankets in the yoga room are somehow more comfy than our sinking bed at the Carlyle. Not that I’ve been thinking much about the Park since we got out of the tunnels.

I’ve been trying not to, anyway.

The thing is, I know Rolladin’s a liar. And I know we can’t go back to the Park, not anytime soon anyway. But that doesn’t mean I want to hop on a boat and sail into the wild blue yonder. Ryder and Sam came over here looking for answers, they said so themselves. So what’s to say the rest of the world isn’t worse off than Manhattan? What’s to say we can’t all make a better go of it here? Eventually make peace with Rolladin, after this killing-her-guard thing blows over?

I look around at our sleeping crew. I know I’m the only one who feels this way. Well, besides Trev, of course. But having his support in this crowd is about as worthless as a dollar on Wall Street.

*   *   *

We all get up by midafternoon. Mom lights the long row of candles in the yoga room, and we crowd around the firelight, debating, trying to figure out our next move. Sam says we’re heading south to Bermuda, since the rest of America’s in shambles. But Mom’s pushing to try the “Midwest,” and Sky and Ryder are giggling like fools, throwing out options like Narnia and Middle Earth, wherever the heck those are. After a while, I can’t stand that they’re giggling together, so I plop my yoga mat right in between them. Sky shoots me this look that says,
Seriously?
But I just ignore her. Ryder’s warm, smells like leaves and daytime, and his face is so close that I kind of shut down for a little.

Pretty soon everyone’s stomachs join the debate, and in no time, the whole yoga room’s one big growl. At least we all agree we’ve got to eat before we move on, since Sky’s scraps from the Carlyle are long gone and we’ll need some strength to keep moving. We settle on sending scouts to the streets for food tomorrow morning, whether it’s raining or not. Trevor and I will take the Brits, since I’m a good shot and I sold Trevor as this big-time hunting ace in the tunnels. And Sky and Mom will stay behind to man the fort, since my sister wouldn’t know what to do with a wild animal, and Mom’s ankle is still pretty busted.

*   *   *

We get up before the sun the next morning. Ryder quietly shakes me and Trevor awake, as Sam slips out of the yoga room. I empty my backpack for storage, throw it over my shoulders, and tiptoe out with the guys. But I make sure I don’t wake Mom and Sky—I just can’t handle another round of
Be careful
s.

The four of us grab jackets from the YMCA closet, and then we climb out of our makeshift door. We hit the alley just as the gray sky’s pulling dawn out of its pocket.

“Anywhere but east,” Sam says as he peers out to Sixth Avenue. “No way we’re tempting those subway cannibals again. And I’m sure that Rolladin bitch is trailing the 6 line—she knows our boat’s at the Brooklyn Yard.” He places his bow on the ground and loads it with arrows faster than I can blink.

“Let’s ask the natives for recommendations.” Ryder nudges me in the ribs. “Phee, Trev, what are the West Side’s best options for fine dining?”

My face gets all hot when Ryder looks at me. ’Cause I dreamed about him last night, and like I said, I rarely dream. All through the night, too—his strong jaw, his jet-black hair. His hazel eyes that almost look yellow in the daylight. Now I feel like I’m wearing a sign,
HEY, I LIKE YOU!
and I can’t figure out how to take it off.

“What’s wrong with you?” Trev asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

I close my eyes to focus, try to picture the hand-drawn city maps Mom, Sky, and I would use when we’d search for our own game during the summer on Wall Street. One’s no doubt tucked into the bottom of Sky’s backpack, and I curse myself for not thinking to bring it. “Our best option’s probably some form of game along the river parks. Squirrels, pigeons. Plus occasional deer, peafowl, monkeys, that’ve wandered down from Central Park.”

I open my eyes. Sam and Ryder are looking at me like I’ve lost it.

“Come again?” Ryder asks carefully, just as Sam repeats, “
Monkeys
?”

“Warden Rolladin overbred all the zoo animals for food,” Trevor says. “Now she lets them run wild to fend for themselves.”

I nod. “Sometimes we’ve found peacocks as far south as Wall Street.”

Ryder gives me a big, lopsided smile. “A true concrete jungle.”

“And besides the game,” I add, now gunning for another smile from him, “there should be some plants and grass, too.”

Sam fiddles with the bow. “Where are these parks you’re talking about?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s some stretches of grass along the Hudson up here,” I say. “We’ll have a better chance of finding food there than in the streets.”

“All right.” Sam throws the crossbow over his shoulder, then waves us back towards the small parking lot. “Let’s try the Hudson.”

We cross town, hug tight to the storefronts, all shattered windows and angry black spray paint. At first Ryder and Sam are obsessed with checking out each store, like maybe someone’s been magically stocking the shelves the past decade. One of them stops to look in an old bodega, while the other pops into a bookstore. And Trev gets caught up in the scavenger hunt too, crazy-excited since he’s never been south of 58th Street. He keeps coming back with all these odds and ends, begging for some of my backpack real estate.

“Guys, come on, this is a waste of time.”

They finally abandon the lost cause, and then we start making progress, the numbered avenues falling away along with the storefronts. Finally it’s just a stretch of road that dumps us into a thick, six-lane street called the West Side Highway. We cut around car after abandoned car until we reach the small stretch of pavement near the Hudson River, and the thin slice of grass sandwiched in between.

“You call this a park?” Sam hisses.

“I didn’t promise rolling fields,” I snap, feeling defensive and sort of dumb in front of Ryder. “We can’t go back north, and you said we can’t go east, and all the parks till Wall Street—the ones that weren’t blown up, anyway—are made of pavement. So, yeah, this is what we’ve got.”

“Easy, everybody.” Ryder points past me, to where the walkway loops around a cluster of buildings. “Maybe the stretches of grass widen out as the trail runs downtown.”

“They better.” Sam starts trotting south towards the buildings. “Stay here,” he calls back to us. “I’ll check it out.”

Ryder leans against a skinny tree as Trev collapses Indian-style on the coarse grass below us.

“Sam’s kind of a boss,” Trev says.

I plunk down next to him. “Trev, that’s Ryder’s brother. Don’t be an ass,” I say, even though I’m thinking the same thing.

Ryder just laughs. “It’s okay. Trevor’s right. Older brothers can be like that.”

“I guess.” Trev’s studying the grass, so I can’t really see his face, but he doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is as small and hard as a pebble. “I mean, I wouldn’t know.”

Ryder looks at me before settling on Trevor’s other side. “No siblings, then?”

“No siblings, no parents,” Trevor says with a sigh. “No friends, really, but Lauren, and the Millers, when they come back for the winter.”

My stomach churns a little bit as I watch Trevor pull out the grass in ratty clumps. I try not to think about Trev during the summers. It just makes me feel guilty, picturing him without me around to get his back, without Mom and Sky listening to him babble. Even with Lauren looking out for him, he has to get pretty damn lonely. But what were we supposed to do? Orphans stay in the Park. Plus, we couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. Especially a loud one.

So I say, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got friends. You’re fine.”

It comes out a lot harsher than I wanted it to.

“Either way,” Ryder covers for me, “us orphans’ll have to stick together.”

Trev doesn’t answer, but as he keeps ripping the grass new bald spots, a little smile escapes his lips. And I get this crazy impulse to hug Ryder, or kiss him or something, for saying that.

But then Sam jogs towards us, and the moment’s gone.

“All right, the trail does open up ahead.” Sam takes big gulps of air as he collects himself. “There’s even some trees, some bushes and stuff, a ways down.”

The jerkoff acts like this is some big discovery. “So, basically, you’d call it a
park
?”

But Sam doesn’t say
Sorry
, or
Yeah, Phee, you were right
, or anything else that would make me forget about wanting to punch him. He just gives me a blood-boiling smirk as Ryder, Trev, and I scramble to stand.

The four of us begin traipsing south. We march down the pavement path, eyes on the hunt, hands on our weapons, as the sun throws its arms around the city.

“Are we near your summer place on Wall Street?” Ryder asks as we pass a squat, colorless building marked
NEW YORK SANITATION
.

“We’re not too far. But we never come up this way.” I shrug. “Mom likes us to stay close to home base.”

“So while Trevor’s in the Park all summer, you three really brave the city on your own?” Ryder scans the sad, empty trail that cuts downtown ahead of us. “Seems like it’d be almost impossible outside the Park.”

I think about all our summers on Wall Street—Mom and I hunting in the Financial District, Sky and I learning the herbs in Mom’s garden. “It wasn’t too bad,” I say. “We just had to find our own food sources, like we’re doing now. After a while, there wasn’t anything useful in apartments and stores and stuff. We scavenged as kids, but it became a lost cause eventually.”

Ryder looks shocked. “So, for the past few years you’ve just lived on squirrels and peacocks?”

“Rye, they’re still here, aren’t they?” Sam says as he readjusts his bow. And I could be imagining things, but I swear it sounds like he’s impressed. “Not everyone needs three-course meals and a library to survive.”

Ryder shakes his head. “I’m just saying, zoo cuisine’s not a balanced diet for two growing girls.”

I laugh. “We ate more than squirrels and peacocks. Our summer apartment had a roof garden. We’ve got crops that come up every year, and we add each time we get our hands on seeds at the Park.”

“Couldn’t have been an easy way to live, though. Just the three of you,” Ryder says.

“Nope.”

“Then why do it?”

Trev laughs behind us. “I’ve asked myself the same question, like, a million times.”

I have too. Even though I love our place along the water, I’ve sometimes wished for the Park so bad it hurt. Like when it snowed in April, or rained so hard in June that our little farm was nearly flooded.

“The Red Allies only forced everyone to the Park for the winters, ’cause of the land and animals and timber and everything,” I tell them. “Mom said she wanted the summers to be ours. That we deserved a taste of freedom. So even though it’s tougher on our own sometimes, Mom feels like it’s worth it.”

Ryder studies me with wide, probing eyes. Then he asks softly, “Do
you
?”

His question jars me, ’cause I’ve never thought about it—that was just the way it was. But now I try to consider both sides—what we’d be doing at the Park right now if we weren’t hunting game along the Hudson. Maybe waking up, warm in our tiny Carlyle room, getting ready to pick crops in the shock-cold air. Then I think about Wall Street—our summer kingdom of three. All those lazy days of lying in the sun with Sky in our roof garden . . . all those long nights of freaky noises outside our walls. A kingdom every bit as awesome as it was terrifying.

I want to explain all this to Ryder: that the answer is messy, that I haven’t let myself sort it all out, ’cause no good would come of the sorting. Plus, I don’t want him writing me off as some Manhattan savage, especially compared to my brainiac sister.

But like always, I can’t find the right words. And I’ve got to settle for, “I don’t know.”

I’m waiting for Sam to grunt or make a crack at such a lame answer, but he doesn’t.

In fact, no one speaks for a long, long time.

“I get that,” Ryder finally says as he flashes me this big, awesome smile. And his voice is full and knowing, like I’ve said something important. It warms me even more than his smile and pretty face. “There aren’t many straightforward answers anymore. Are there?”

Sam grabs Ryder’s arm to slow him on his other side. Then he whispers, “Quiet.” He points to a bunch of scraggly trees a stone’s throw down the path, then steps onto the grass and crouches behind some bushes. “Get down, guys.”

Ryder, Trev, and I all crawl behind Sam and follow his gaze. A family of squirrels runs up, down, and around the near-bare branches of the trees, frantic little figure eights one after another. I focus and count. Six squirrels. Jackpot. With these and some mushrooms, and if we’re lucky, some herbs, it’s a stew to feed all of us.

“A gun might be better,” Sam whispers. “You’ve got extra ammo for yours, right?” he says to me.

I clutch the small handgun in my pocket. The little pistol with one measly bullet. And even though by now I should probably just trust this guy and come clean about my lack of replacements—at this point, we’re all in this together—it still feels safer to lie.

“I left the other rounds with Sky,” I tell Sam. “Sorry. Guess it needs to be the bow.”

Sam mutters to himself and then looks at Trevor. “What about you, the big-time hunting prodigy? Where’s your weapon?”

Trev gulps. “I don’t have one.”

“Naturally.” Sam rubs his forehead and sighs. “So basically, this was just a kiddie field trip.”

My heart starts rumbling into fight mode again—I’ve helped Mom hunt and held my own in the Park for as long as I can remember, and this jerkoff’s been dismissing me since I saved his ass in the zoo.

“Call me a kid one more time and we’re going to have problems. Seriously, what are you, like, twenty or something? And what have you actually
done
, besides gotten us in trouble in the tunnels and taken up a mat at the YMCA?”