City of Beasts

by Corrie Wang

  Outside, car doors slam.

  Next comes Twofer’s panicked call. “Glori?”

  I drop our water glasses and scream, “Twofer, run!”

  Only by the time I get there, the car is gone. In real life I ran after it. In my dream I simply stand there until Majesty comes to the door.

  “Don’t forget,” she calls. “They always see.”

  I wake drenched in sweat, my left arm throbbing. I am in an enormous room in an enormous bed that is covered by an absurd number of pink-and-green comforters. I pull my knees to my chest and rock myself the way I rocked Two Five every time he had a nightmare. But the only thing that makes me feel better is repeating my pledge again and again.

  “I’ll find you. I promise. I’ll find you. I promise. I promise. I promise. I’ll find you.”

  “Suze?” I quietly call out as if she might be hiding somewhere among this menagerie.

  Around me, floor-to-ceiling windows line an entire wall and are covered by sheer pink, blue, and yellow pastel drapes that remind me of a sunrise. The fabric hangs from metal pipes that encircle all four walls of the room, clearly hiding shelves. Colorful carpets haphazardly coat the floors, and everywhere there are life-size fake animals. Wood-carved giraffes. An entire herd of stone sheep. An enormous stuffed lion. And in a throne-like chair in a corner sits a bizarre sculpture of a fee in a dress with a shark head. I must be high up. From where I lie, hazy late afternoon sky is my only view.

  It’s then I hear the whispering.

  “Do loafers go with cutoffs?” a voice hisses. “Of course I’m mad, Sway. The only reason we get by is because no one knows we’re here. And now…”

  “You’re the one that said we should bring them back, Comma.”

  I quickly check myself. Though I do not see my girls or my pack, my clothes are in place and my body feels undisturbed, with the exception that the left sleeve of my shirt has been cut away and my arm has been wrapped in clean cloth. Wincing, I peel back the bandage. Where the bullet grazed my bicep, it scooped out a pecan-size divot of flesh, which is now tidily dressed with four neat stitches. It looks well cleaned. Good. I highly doubt males make their own antibiotics like fees do.

  “Well, you’re the one who helped them to begin with. Hanging around the river like some scavenger creep. And I get it, I do. You’re hoping to get information about her, but that big one looks like he wants to eat me, Sway. And not in a good way.”

  Sway laughs. “I wouldn’t worry, you’re too bony to eat.”

  “Joke all you like. But if this goes bad or you get hurt, so help me, I’ll give you a choppy fade.”

  “No, you won’t, Com. You love my hair more than you love me.”

  “Well, today I hate both you and your marvelously straight, ethnically unambiguous locks.” The male lets out a puff of exasperated breath. “No, I don’t. I can’t even pretend. Do you think he’s awake?”

  “You mean, do I think you screaming about loafers woke her? Yes, yes I do.”

  Footsteps. Sharp. Light. I jump out of bed and position myself behind the door. When it’s thrown open a second later, the curtains along the walls billow, and before I can properly grasp the wonders beyond, a beast charges into the room.

  “Rise and whine, little nag! Wait. Where’d he go?”

  No sooner does he turn to look for me than I have his arm pinned behind his back and his face pressed to the wall. It’s the same male who rescued us from the subway platform. He doesn’t look much older than Sway, but he couldn’t be more different. Whereas Sway is tall and thin and lithe, this one is more compact, leanly muscular, and much darker. His curls are shaved close to the side of his head, but on top they’re picked out and messy. Half are an orangey yellow; the other half look more naturally black. He’s wearing tight, shiny pants and a loud, bright blue shirt that hangs off a toned shoulder. Rings decorate every single finger, and he’s wearing what looks like a wand in a holster across his chest.

  “You’re right,” he says with his face smooshed to the brick wall. “This one is much less frightening than the other.”

  Sway leans against the doorjamb. Savory cooking smells waft in after him.

  “Glori, Commander. Commander, Glori.”

  “Don’t say it,” Commander says. “I couldn’t command my way out of a dark room. But I am excellent at making my way into dark rooms, if you know what I mean.”

  I look to Sway.

  He laughs. “Clearly, she doesn’t.”

  Commander shushes Sway, then says, “You can call me Comma. Everyone does.”

  “Is that a wand on your chest?”

  “Sacrilege. It’s a Majesterial horn replica from the Unicorn Warrior films, which were based on the acclaimed and beloved television series Unicorn Warrior. This horn is the only good thing those films produced.” He puts a hand to his mouth and fake whispers, “Unicorn Warrior is my life. And if that statement doesn’t assure you I’m not the threatening one in this situation, nothing will. Can you maybe release me now?”

  I hesitate, but then Su is there.

  “You can let it go. As far as I can tell, it’s safe.”

  “Did he just call me an it?” Comma quickly steps away from me, rubbing his wrist. “You’re right, Sway, this is worth risking our lives over.”

  Su pulls at the bandages on my arm.

  “You probably shouldn’t remove that yet…” Sway says.

  “That is going to be one wicked scar,” Su says enviously.

  “I’m sure we can get you your own gunshot wound soon enough,” I reply.

  “Promises, promises.” She puts her forehead to mine. “Thanks be you’re okay.”

  “This is not how they described y’all in nag class,” Comma says.

  We both turn our heads so our cheeks are pressed together.

  “Nag class?” I ask.

  I feel my forehead crinkle into what Su calls my get-out-the-way face, but I can’t help it. The beasts are taking classes on fees?

  “It’s a program Mayor Chia started for all us younger norms,” Comma says, and then ticks off on his fingers. “So far we’ve learned that you’re sensitive. That you love talking about how things make you feel. And how to be a good listener—smile and nod—also, that you’re weaker than we are…”

  “Huh!” Su laughs.

  “Terrible drivers…” Comma continues.

  “Who drives anymore?” I ask.

  “And bad at fixing things,” Comma says.

  “Okay, now I’m getting annoyed,” Su grunts.

  “Oh! And that you’re very emotional and cry at the drop of a hat.”

  “Who would cry at a hat dropping?” I ask innocently. “Did the hat get hurt? Was it the last hat to survive and now there are no more hats?”

  “Sway.” Comma grabs at him. “I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Interpret.”

  “I couldn’t be joking,” I say. “Didn’t you know? Fees aren’t as funny as beasts, either.”

  But that last one gets me. Twofer teared up a lot. When he skinned his knee. If he stepped on an ant. If Su jumped out and scared him. Was that not normal? Thinking of Twofer crying over the small nothings of day-to-day life, I can’t imagine how terrified he must be right now. As if reading the shift in my expression, Sway gestures out of the room.

  “Should we eat? There’s a lot to talk about.”

  I nod gratefully. As I follow him out, I ask under my breath, “How often do you cry?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Whenever it’s appropriate, I guess.”

  Behind us, Comma sidles up to Su like a fly to half-eaten fruit.

  “Now you tell me,” he says. “What do you learn in your classes on males?”

  Su considers, then replies, “Primarily how to kill you.”

  Some minutes later, we wary four sit around an island in an open kitchen that is bigger than the entire Costco bakery section, in a loft that is at least the size of a soccer field. More floor-to-ceiling windows line the wall facing the ri
ver. Which is strange, because the males—boys, as they keep calling themselves—seem so much smarter than enormous windows that let out the warmth in the freezing months and let in the scorching sun in the heat months.

  As in Comma’s bedroom, the loft is filled to excess. There are at least twenty different guitars, a deflated jump house, too many half-built Gundam models to count, and an enormous framed canvas covered in paint splatter that is longer than Su and me standing an arm’s length apart.

  “Matricula Rhodes says ownership breeds discontent,” Su says, surveying the loft.

  “Then she’s clearly never sat in a massage chair,” Comma replies.

  Sway clears his throat. “Everyone, dig in.”

  Laid out on the counter before us in red glazed ceramic bowls is a veritable feast. A spicy Japanese curry with eggs and kale, various pickled root vegetables, a clay pot of porridge, a stack of homemade scallion pancakes, and a bowl of little circle pastas in a bright red sauce. With the exception of the pasta, it smells similar to the food Liyan cooks and looks one hundred times more delicious than the cabbage soup that is my Grand Mati’s specialty.

  Su leans back, arms crossed. “Sorry. I’m allergic to poison.”

  Sway shakes his head and scoops porridge into his bowl. “Let me guess, Matricula Rhodes says that’s how we kill you. Fine. More for us. But please tell Madame Rhodes that if we were gonna poison you, we wouldn’t waste SpaghettiOs doing it.”

  It’s just an offhand comment—still, Su and I exchange a look. It goes unnoticed as the males fill their bowls. After clinking their spoons together, they begin inhaling their food with their mouths practically right to the edge of their dishes.

  It is, quite frankly, gross.

  “Learn some table manners,” Su grunts.

  “What for?” Sway asks.

  Su’s eyes track back to me as I put a little curry on a scallion pancake. “Don’t even…”

  “I’m no help to Twofer if I starve, Suze.”

  Before she can stop me, I take a bite.

  I press my eyes shut.

  “Are you okay?” She leans across and shakes my arm. Luckily not the wounded one. “Roach? Roach!”

  I look at Su and smile. It’s not like Liyan’s cooking. It’s better. I quickly spoon curry into my bowl. After a few more bites, Su grabs my wrist and takes my pulse. When it’s clear my heart is not seizing up, she slips a pancake onto her plate. Sway meets my eyes and grins. I quickly look away, the rich food suddenly flipping in my belly.

  “So, what have you learned about where Two Five is?” I ask.

  “Not much yet.” Sway slurps porridge. “Through the pipeline, we’ve heard lots of theories, but none worth men—”

  “Aristotle bets he’s going to be the prize at this week’s Road Races,” Comma interrupts, spraying scallion pancake crumbs across the table. “Flux Capacitator bets he was traded to the Charlestonians for one of their women. Which makes sense why those Holy City goits came at you so hard. And Fuego insists your bruth was taken to the Fortress. That he’s being cloned.”

  “Cloned?” Su repeats. “Beasts have that capability?”

  “No one has that capability,” Sway says, and I try very hard not to look at Su again. “Don’t listen to Comma. The Charlestonians would never trade a fee. Period. A human child is too big a prize for a Road Race. And the stuff that goes on at the Fortress is all urban legend.”

  “What’s that mean?” I ask.

  “The Fortress is this giant end-of-times bunker that’s past the farms, down the road from where we grew up,” Sway explains. “It’s the place everyone’s dad threatened to send them if they misbehaved. What happens inside changes on a family-by-family basis. A mad scientist runs it. A mad scientist runs it as a torture palace. A mad scientist runs it as a torture palace that churns out AI. Take your pick.” Sway rolls his eyes at our blank expressions. “AI means artificial intelligence.”

  “Robots,” Comma says loudly, as if volume and not vocabulary are the hindrance to our understanding. “Maybe they’re not making robots, but, Sway, you know the Fortress is up to some kind of no good.” To us he adds, “My dad, Rugged, thinks it’s where our first mayor, Mayor Grim, sent all his dissenters after he took office. Fortitude’s leftovers, if you will. Rugged used to let us set bear traps in the woods, Sway. He wouldn’t make us stay away from the Fortress if the stuff that went on inside it was just urban legend.”

  As Sway helps himself to more curry, Comma takes his bowl to a gunmetal-gray garbage can and drops it in. Not the unfinished food. The entire bowl. Su wails in protest. Unperturbed, Comma returns and plucks my knit hat off my head. I’m so shocked by his flagrant wastefulness I don’t even flinch. And then panic flutters in my chest like moths at our solar porch light. I’m no closer to finding Twofer now than I was on the other side of the river.

  Comma stops picking at my hair and leans a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Oh my Gray Grantham Hallow. That’s it, Sway. Dissenters. Take them to the Influencer.”

  Sway snorts. “No way.”

  “Why not? The Influencer ticks every box. Close to the mayor. Ear to the ground. He’s probably the one who saw the little boy…. What’s your brother’s non-name again?”

  “Two Five.”

  “Right. The Influencer probably spotted Little Digit coming over in the first place.”

  Sway taps his spoon against his lips. “Huh. Except the Influencer hates fees.”

  “Who’s the Influencer?” Su asks.

  Sway stands up, stretches, then retrieves Comma’s bowl from the garbage.

  “This goit that broke into one of the old television stations a few years back and rerouted things…. Honestly, I don’t know what he did. Anyway, now he’s one of the most powerful people in the city, in charge of the programming on every screen. You want to binge Chef Down on the ad board in Ellicott Square? You talk to the Influencer. The only problem is, Euphoria, the place he holes up in, is impenetrable. Even if we got in, you two wouldn’t last five seconds.”

  “Great.” I stand up. “Let’s go.”

  “Didn’t you hear the ‘only problem’ part of what I just said?” Sway laughs.

  “Sure, but impenetrable? I doubt that.”

  “You also forgot,” Comma says, “the Influencer hates nags.”

  I sigh, frustrated. Then I have an idea.

  “Then make us less fee.” Su starts to protest, but I hurry on. “In the tunnel, for a second, Rage thought I was something called a swan. Why can’t I pretend to be that?”

  “That’s actually not a terrible idea,” Comma says.

  One second Sway’s wiping out Comma’s bowl, the next he’s right beside me. As fast, I have his upper body pinned to the table, the pointy end of a chopstick pressed against his throat. Just as quick, Su has one pressed to Comma’s heart. A bowl of pickled root vegetables spins off the table and breaks on the floor. Despite the threat of being impaled by a chopstick, Comma squeals and applauds. My arm is thrown across Sway’s shoulders and neck. The lengths of our bodies are pressed together. Our faces inches apart.

  “I admire your confidence, slick, but if you want to get your brother, you can’t do that every time some norm approaches you. I’ll go talk to the Influencer. You two would need way too much desensitization to ever make it work.”

  “Desensitization to what?” Su asks.

  “Males,” Sway says.

  Absurdly slowly, he raises a finger up to my face. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to break it. Finally, he presses it to the tip of my nose.

  “Boop.”

  I can’t take it. I spring off him. He pushes himself off the table and whips his torso around, cracking his back. Su slowly lowers her chopstick.

  “I might need a little desensitization,” I say. “But if anyone is going for Twofer, it’s me.”

  Before Sway can respond, his portable chirps with an incoming PTT. Although what Grand called cellular service went out with the
Night, as long as the correct app had been previously downloaded, the walkie-talkie-style push-to-talk voice messaging feature still worked on most portable devices.

  Now Sway’s portable says, “Nice coat, you goit. Turn on your TV.”

  Cursing, Sway hurries to the far end of the loft, where four giant leather recliners are set in front of a tennis court–size screen. Comma grabs a remote and clicks play. A windowsill-mounted wind-powered generator whirls, and the screen flickers to life.

  I gasp. “What the…?”

  “Chill, sweetie, it’s only the news,” Comma says.

  Now Su gasps. “You mean this is a live feed?”

  “Oh my Hallowed Horned Halls,” Comma murmurs as he watches the screen. “You two are famous.”

  “I don’t know what any of that means,” I say.

  Sway clarifies, “They’re onto you.”

  “Who?” Su asks as I hold my breath.

  “By now?” Sway says. “Everyone.”

  “We’re back with continuing coverage of this morning’s female sighting and an update from the mayor….”

  This comes from an elderly male who is sitting in his living room in his underwear and a ratty T-shirt. You’d think maybe he’d dress for the occasion. But then the screen flashes and suddenly is filled with a burly male with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair. He wears a clean, pressed, pre-Night suit that he makes look rumpled. Mayor Chia, the caption beneath him reads. This is the males’ equivalent of our Matricula Rhodes. Only he’s been in office for a third of the time. I expected him to look evil or corrupt, yet he just looks tired.

  “Fellow citizens, we are considering these females armed and dangerous. If you see them, you are instructed to call the patrol immediately. Do not engage them. They appear to be assassins sent here to retrieve the child who was erroneously reported to have crossed the river.”

  “Erroneously?” Su echoes, her eyes flicking to me with worry.

  “That means wrongly reported,” Comma says. “Goodness gracious, read a book.”

  “I repeat, there is no child in Buffalo. Granted, this is a condition we are working to change. Raiding Grand Island or attacking females will not help these pursuits.”