City of Savages (19 page)

“Not fine but—understandable.”

“Understandable to cheat on Dad?”

“Sky, honestly, we don’t even know the guy.”

This is just like Phee, to erase all the boundaries between right and wrong, to rationalize whatever’s thrown at her. But right now, her annoying pragmatism, her
refusal
to judge, bothers me so much that I almost want to scream.

“But it was Dad’s
sister
. You heard that, right?”

“I know, but—”

“What if it was me? What if I was married”—I immediately think again about Ryder, which causes my face to break out in hives of embarrassment—“and you couldn’t find me? You think I’d be okay with you shacking up with my husband?” My voice keeps rising, even though I’m trying to whisper. “Because I’m not. I mean I wouldn’t be. I hope you know that.”

“But Sky, this isn’t about you and me,” she says, so forcefully she surprises both of us.

We stare at each other, daring the other to speak first.

“Is it?” Phee finally adds.

And this is my chance to say something, to tell her that,
Yes, there is something about you and me that isn’t right. That feels like it’s dying
.

“No, obviously.” I try to regroup and get back to the book. “Anyway, Mom’s pregnancy with you wasn’t going so easy in the tunnels,” I mumble to the journal, my voice still shaking from our tension, trembling, preparing to pounce. “That’s where I left off.”

We position ourselves against the window without another word.

September—One of our surface scouts, Lauren, came back with news. Huge news. Potentially life-changing news.

“We found missionaries on the surface, while we were in Whole Foods,” the once well-dressed woman from the subways started sputtering.
Lauren wore a dead soldier’s uniform, and it
hung loosely on her frame. “They came from the West Side, and they’re caring for people in the subways. The missionaries told us there’s going to be some kind of . . . of convention down here, for
survivors. From the 1 line, the 2, the F train, the
R line . . .”

The 1 and 2 trains. The lines Tom and Robert would’ve used to get to the studio.

“There’re still other groups of scavengers hiding in the subways, and in the city—”

“Lauren, cut to the chase,” Mary barked.

“Tomorrow, at noon,” she answered breathlessly, “every group’s going to send a representative to the tracks at the West Fourth subway stop, on the uptown E train track. With a list of names of their survivors, and who they’re looking for. Don’t you see? My son—your daughters and husbands and sisters and brothers—might be out there!”

The crowd fell into disarray, shouts and laughter and tears. Lauren whispered stories about her son to the Kansas women, Bronwyn prayed to God for her boyfriend from NYU.

But I only had eyes for Mary, to see what she was thinking.

Hope. Tom. Our lives. Tom and Robert could be out there. My God, they could be out there.

I grabbed Mary’s hand and tried to get her to look at me, to share what she was thinking, but she shrugged me off and talked over the crowd.

“We don’t know who these people are. They could be lying.”

Lauren shook her head. “This is real. We need to meet them. I promised—”

The crowd turned in to itself again, whispering, arguing, until Mary finally shouted, “Enough. All right. I’ll go. As our leader, it should be me.”

And even though the possibility of finding Tom had my nerves electrified, my stomach plummeted. “Wait, Mary, no. Send someone else, it’s too dangerous.”

“You can’t go alone, Mary,” Mrs. Warbler agreed.

“Fine. I’ll take someone with me. Sarah, rip a page from your book. Pass it around. We all write our names and our missing loved ones next to them tonight.”

September—I’m a mess. Vomiting, dry heaving, shakes. I can no longer stand without feeling dizzy. Lauren is kindly taking care of Sky as I lie here, sick and sobbing, on makeshift bed rest in the corner. Mary and Dave must be at West 4th Street by now, determining our fate. Figuring out who’s left. God, I hope she’s safe. I hope Tom’s safe.

I’m terrified.

My feelings are warring inside me, guilt and anger and longing. If Tom’s alive, have I ruined everything?

September—The next day Mary stumbled back to us covered in blood. Alone.

I wanted to rush to her, but I was cemented to the ground.

“What happened?”

“Who hurt you?”

“Where’s Dave?”

Mary just shook her head and collapsed as the crowd swarmed around her.

“They killed him. They almost killed me,” she whispered.

Lauren gasped and clutched Sky to her. “That can’t be. They promised, they seemed like us. Trustworthy—oh God, Mary, I’m so sorry.”

Mary motioned for water, and one of the young orphans, Lory, opened a jug and brought it to her.

“The E-train summit started out calmly enough, reading and comparing names, asking one another how we’ve been surviving. But the lists revealed nothing. There weren’t any matches.”

She rolled onto her side to rest and moaned from the pain. “I did find out a little. The enemy is headquartered in Central Park. It’s dispatching its ground forces from there. The Lower East Side, the Piers, most of Chelsea and the Villages, are gone.” She exhaled. “As Dave and I were heading back home, they jumped us. They stole our weapons, they finished Dave off. You see what’s left of me.”

The crowd helped clean Mary’s wounds. No one spoke as we retreated into our dark corners and relinquished the hope that we had secured without credit.

Late into the night, Mary finally came to me. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to tell her that I’d take care of her now, that at least she was safe.

But I couldn’t. First I needed to know.

“You said the E-train summit compared lists, before they hurt you,” I pressed her, my voice cracking from disuse. “Did you ask about Tom and Robert? Did anyone know them?”

It was a long time before she said anything. “They weren’t on any list, Sarah.”

I shrugged off her answer. “Then they made it to the studio,” I said matter-of-factly. “We could send someone up, to the surface—”

“Sarah,” she interrupted as she rubbed her fight wounds with alcohol. “I’m sorry, baby, but I need you to give up chasing Tom’s ghost. Robert’s art studio is in Chelsea. In shambles. Wrecked. Sarah, they didn’t survive.”

“But—” I let the word hang there, like bait on a
hook, prayed that I’d catch something, anything.
A glimmer of hope. A concession.

“Sarah. It’s time to let them go,” Mary told me softly. But firmly. “It’s time to face reality. It’s time to let them go.”

It was a long time before either of us moved. Finally I turned away from her.

I got on my hands and knees and crawled. Nothing, no one, could soothe me as I cried. Sky must have wiggled away from Lauren and scrambled beside me, mimicking me, wailing, until I pulled her in and hugged her fiercely, our tears running together.

Mom. Tough, stoic . . .
fragile
 . . . Mom. I’m crying as I listen to her, young and broken in the belly of a dying city. All my judgment and my anger about her and Mary fall away. And just like all those years ago, I want to run to Mom and bury my head in her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Phee says. Her hand snaps forward, reaching for me like a reflex, but then it retreats back to her side. “This was a long time ago, Sky. Mom’s okay.”

I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “Right.”

October—I’m not human anymore.

I’m just bodily functions and urges. Eat, throw up, bleed, cry. Mary is beyond worried. And the whispers—all I hear is the whispers.

“Hemorrhaging.”

“Hyperemesis.”

“She won’t make it, not without a doctor.”

I try not to listen as I slip in and out of consciousness.

October—“We’re getting you to the surface,” Mary said, and I realized I was being carried on a wide life raft of some sort, a makeshift stretcher.

“Where’s Sky?” I mumbled. I didn’t know how long I’d been out.

“She’s with Lauren and Bronwyn. She’s safe, baby. We’re leaving the tunnels.”

“Mary, no—” I struggled to get the words out. “Not on my account. They’ll kill us up there.”

She grabbed my hand. “I put it to a vote. People are tired of hiding. We can’t do this forever.” She leaned in and stroked my hair as the crowd carried me forward. “I can’t live without you, and you and the baby will die down here. We’re surrendering.”

“Everyone?” I managed.

“No, not everyone. Only those who are smart. Those who can fend for themselves. Survival of the fittest.”

I couldn’t help but smile. It might have been my first one in weeks. “I’m hardly the fittest.”

“Well,” she said, kissing me as I was propelled forward. “The fittest and those they love.”

They carried me on the stretcher, like an offering, and we emerged out of the tunnels and into the light, blinded, stumbling around like drugged animals towards the fields. I got down and leaned against Mary, and slowly, we walked forward. Bronwyn brought Sky to me, and I clutched her like a doll.

Light, oh how I missed you.

Grass.

Air.

Food.

Rich smells saturated the air—meat, boiling vegetables. Blood and sweat.

The smells wafted over the Park, through the rows of tents and huts that were built by our invaders.

“Put your hands in the air,” Mary ordered the crowd.

We raised our arms, walked slowly, showed our attackers that we were coming in peace. But that didn’t stop the foreign tongues thrashing at the sky, the cocked rifles. The team of soldiers that surrounded us, yelling, barking, thrusting their weapons into our faces.

“Please,” Mary said. “We come to surrender. Woman. With Child. Please.”

She took out her Central Park Zoo volunteer keys and dangled them. “Surrender. You lock us up, take care of us.”

We were ushered into the heart of the Park, to be given to the mercy of those who could make these kinds of decisions. A short man shadowed by a large general’s cap approached us with a thin young interpreter right on his heels.

The general ran through a litany of foreign syllables, harsh alien words that snapped and bit at our ears.

Then the interpreter spoke. “The general has heard your plea. He accepts on his terms.”

Mary gave a choked, nervous laugh. “His terms?”

The general grabbed the keys from Mary, grunting and smiling at them. He nodded to the team of soldiers behind him.

“His terms are women and children,” the interpreter said.

“Wait, I said we have a woman with child—”

The interpreter interrupted Mary, barked to the platoon behind him in his native tongue, and then we were separated and herded, the women and children pushed to one side, the men to the other.

The general moved up close to Mary, so that he was inches from her face. “What is your name, woman?”

Of course he spoke English himself.

“Mary,” she sputtered. “Mary Rolladin.”

“Oh my God.” My breath catches as I read over those words, repeat them just as Mary did.
Mary. Mary Rolladin
.

Mary is Rolladin.

“What?” Phee says, frantically grabbing the journal to catch up with me. I watch her eyes move swiftly back and forth, devouring each word. “Wait, that can’t be. Mary
Rolladin
?”

“Oh my God,” I say again. My mind shuffles, bends, and bridges my memories of the Park leader like cards in a deck. Rolladin barking orders.

Rolladin bullying guards and fieldworkers—

Rolladin protecting Phee in the street-fights.

Rolladin offering us drinks in her chambers.

I think of what she said to me, that night we told her we wanted to join her.
You’ve always reminded me of your mother.

Rolladin knows my mother, because she’s our aunt.

Because she was with our mother.

“I knew it. I knew there had to be more,” Phee says. “I knew she cared about us—”

“We just didn’t know why,” I finish for her.

And she’s right, of course. This news doesn’t surprise me. Instead it completes the picture and clicks everything into place.

I tug the book back between us, so that it lies across our knees. “This isn’t just Mom’s story.” My head is reeling, overloaded, sputtering from trying to process too much information.

“This is Rolladin’s story,” Phee’s voice catches as she finishes. She looks at me. “Like you said back at the Carlyle—this is our city’s story.”

The men were gathered into the center of the Great Lawn as we were pushed towards the sidelines. Soldiers moved quickly, lining us up, lining the men up, counting, running numbers for an equation for which none of us knew the variables.

“WOA-WA-DIN,” the general repeated back to Mary, smiling. “Women and children, Rolladin. Nothing for free.”

And then, with a whistle, he called all his
gunmen to raise their rifles. They fired on the
men in the field.

One at a time.

October—Our captors, the Red Allies, are picking New Yorkers off the streets one by one and slowly flushing them out of the subways. They’re storing us in the Central Park zoo houses like it’s some kind of makeshift internment camp.