by D B Bray
Jack headed to dry land. The town was bustling with slave auctions in the center of the park. It was the epicenter of trade in New York. Everything was sold there, but its most lucrative commodity; humans.
Jack stood at the back of the crowd watching the degrading spectacle. There were men, women, and children of all ages in the long line going to the auction block.
A young black man, Jack’s age, stood next to him. Jack eyed him warily and nodded a hello. He could hear him grinding his teeth.
“There is a terrible price for not being in a tribe,” the young man said.
Jack cut his eyes at him. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“Slave trade.”
“Okay, so why talk to me?”
“Because you look lost, and I live on these docks. Adam Ant is my name,” he said.
“Well, Adam, I don’t feel too friendly, and I’m only here for a short time, but it was nice to meet you,” Jack said, leading his horse away.
Adam jogged over to him and pulled his sleeve. “Hate to tell you this, Scavenger, but the Battery Park slave traders are already eyeing you for their property.” He nodded toward some men staring at them. “I know you don’t know me, but if you want to get out of here before you become another piece of cattle, you better follow me,” he said.
Three men stepped onto the road, carrying large bloodied clubs, the red line painted down the center of their faces from forehead to chin marked them as slavers.
One of them stepped forward and pointed at Jack. “Hey, come here.”
Jack rubbed his hand on the rifle butt. “Don’t think that’ll happen. I’m not looking for trouble. I just need to pass through,” he said.
The men looked at each other and then back at him. “Being here alone ain’t no way to survive.”
“I’m not—-.” He glanced over his shoulder. Adam had disappeared.
The men walked in his direction, pushing people out of the way as they came forward. Jack pulled his rifle free and trained it on the leader of the group.
“Another step and you won’t walk any further,” Jack said, his voice cracking at the end.
Jack heard one of the men shout and grab his foot, hopping on the other. A war cry echoed around them, and he watched one boy attack them from the left, Adam coming from the right. The aluminum bats they carried struck home with deadly efficiency. Before Jack could blink, it was over.
Adam snatched Jack by the collar and pulled him onto another road leading off the main one he was on. Looking over his shoulder, Adam shouted, “Told you I wasn’t the enemy.”
Jack’s horse trotted behind them as they approached a large tent with a slew of young people sitting out front, armed with different weapons and tools.
“Leave the horse and come with me,” Adam said, opening the deerskin flap used for a door.
“No way. I appreciate what you did—-.”
Jack didn’t finish his sentence before Adam yanked him through and shut the flap. Jack could hear shouts outside, the young guards taunting whoever had just arrived.
“My guys will buy us time.” He lifted the torn dirt-caked rug and pulled the brass handle underneath. He shoved Jack down the stairs and shut the trap door behind them. Jack’s rifle clattered across the floor as he tumbled down the stairs. He landed on his ribs, bruising them.
Adam stood over him, a grin on his face. He stuck his hand out and helped Jack to his feet. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Jack grunted his thanks and brushed himself off. “I didn’t ask for your help, Adam.”
He picked up his rifle and shouldered it. Scanning the faces in front of him, he noticed most of the kids were no older than ten. There were kids of all races present, mostly boys, but a few battle-hardened young women sat in the shadows under the torchlight.
“Who are these kids?” Jack asked.
Adam’s face turned to stone. “They’re slaves like me we rescued around Battery Park. We fight the slavers whenever we can,” he said.
“Where are the adults?” Jack asked, examining the room.
Adam laughed. “Our parents are either slaves or dead. We protect each other, and when we can, we rob the slavers to supplement our small group,” he said.
The trap door opened above them with a loud groan. Adam gripped his bat, rotating it in his palm. A young man sprinted down to the basement and greeted them with a smile.
“Billy, what did you find?” Adam asked.
Billy walked over to the table and emptied his pockets. Bits of yarn, some silver coins, and a few small switchblades tumbled out.
“Not much, but enough to trade with,” he said, pocketing one of the knives.
Billy couldn’t have been older than fourteen, but he was as tall as an adult with an already receding hairline. His complexion was light brown with jet black hair slicked into a ponytail. His eyes were bright, but the bags under them let Jack know he had seen death and probably worse.
Adam was confident, bordering on cocky. A young man well versed in the ways of the world and its deprivations. His hair was shaved to the scalp, and both of his ears were pierced with wooden toggles. A thick leather choker was tied around his neck for protection, and a jagged scar ran over his right eye giving him the look of a seasoned veteran.
Billy stuck his hand out and said, “Billy Sims is my name; knives are my game.”
Jack shook his hand, keeping an eye on the collection of knives attached to his belt. He counted seven connected to Billy’s trouser line before they stopped shaking hands.
“Welcome to the Blades,” Adam said, handing him a canteen.
Jack took a sip, coughed, and spat the drink onto Billy’s shoes.
“What was that?” Jack asked, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Whiskey. Haven’t you ever drank it?” Billy asked, rubbing his shoes in the dirt.
“No, I was raised never to touch alcohol,” Jack said, spitting on the floor again.
Billy and Adam laughed for a few minutes, then slapped him on the back. “Where you from, Mister Jack?” Adam asked.
“Zone Ten in Virginia, far to the south,” he said.
Billy pulled a few chairs over and offered him a seat. Jack sat and rested his rifle across his knees.
“No need for the gun. We have rules here,” Adam said, pointing at a sign by the stairs.
Jack read it and swallowed the lump in his throat; No guns or death will follow.
“But we’ll make an exception for you,” Billy said, handing him another canteen.
“I told you I don’t drink.”
“It’s water, you’re safe,” Billy said.
Jack took a long swig and wiped his sleeve across his lips with a sigh. He handed it back to Billy and lowered his rifle to his feet. The other kid's faces peered at him from the shadows, giving him an uneasy feeling.
“Why are you here?” Adam asked.
Jack sighed. “Where to begin? My brother Toby and I are from Fort Monroe in Virginia. Our tribe was wiped out a few weeks ago, and we were given an assignment by our father to find this piece of paper called a Constitution.”
“A what?” Billy asked.
“A Constitution is a document used to govern our country before the war. We need to find the pieces and put them back together,” Jack said.
“So why come here?” Billy asked.
“A piece of it is supposed to be in a place called Manhattan.” He pulled the map from his coat pocket and handed it to Adam. “It’s in a place called The New York Society Library on East 79th, wherever that is.”
Adam and Billy looked at each other, eyes wide. The north of Manhattan was a desolate wasteland, the perfect storm of chaos and madness. Central Park, where Jack wanted to go no longer existed, only a hollow shell remained.
“The Upper East Side tribe runs that part of the city. Although their caravans stopped coming here a few years ago and no one has heard from them since. I heard the area is surrounded by barbed wire and concrete barriers. The zoo was c
lose by there too, and the animals escaped during the bombing raids and multiplied. There’s ostriches, tigers, lions, gorillas, and a list of others they trade at the auction block,” Adam said.
“Can you show me how to get there?” Jack asked.
Billy ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. “Gonna cost you if we do, and I’m not sure if you can pay for what we want.”
“Name your price,” Jack said, leaning forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together.
Adam shrugged. “What do you have?” he asked.
“I’ll trade my horse and help you escape to the Statue’s tribe out on the water.”
Adam glanced out of the corner of his eye at Billy. “Tempting, but that’s not going to be enough,” he said.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver locket Quill gave him. He handed it over to Adam.
“Will that do it?” he asked.
Adam held it up and weighed it. He bit the locket and smiled. “Real silver.” He threw it over to Billy. “Sell this and the horse. We leave in the morning for the Upper East Side.”
Chapter 11
Adam nudged Jack with his foot. He groaned, sat up, and ran his fingers through his matted hair. Squinting around the murky room, Jack tried to get his bearings. He shoved the flea-ridden blanket away for him, his skin feeling like an army of fire ants had paraded up and down his arms and legs all night.
He scratched his skin, relishing in the comfort of the action. He stood up and kicked the blanket away, a look of disgust on his face.
“I hate fleas,” Jack said.
“Who are you telling?” Adam asked with a chuckle, pulling a hat full of holes over his head. “Let’s roll.”
Jack followed the sounds of Adam running up the stairs, and then put his hand over his brow as he followed him out into the light. The light broke through his fingers, blinding him.
His horse was gone and, in its place, stood four young men dressed in mismatching armor. The Blades used shoulder pads with spikes riveted onto them, and every member carried a shiny aluminum baseball bat.
“Who are these guys?” Jack asked.
“Billy, you know. The other three are the other elders of our tribe.” He introduced each of them as they stepped forward.
The first boy extended his hand. “This is Jaque Franc.”
Jaque was overweight with beady eyes. His armor fit snug across his stomach, and his long-braided hair ran in different directions. He smiled at Jack, his two front teeth missing.
The next boy stepped forward, his fierce gaze staring through Jack. “This is Fred Champaca.”
The left side of Fred’s face was burned, the scars looked like purple streaks running across it. He wore a dirty brown eyepatch, and unlike the others, he had a more haunted look in his eyes.
Jack stuck out his hand to shake his, and Fred slapped it away. “Live in the jungle for a night, and then I’ll shake your hand.”
The last boy chuckled to himself as he circled Jack, sniffing the air around him every few seconds.
“This is Charlie Dayton,” Adam said.
Charlie kept sniffing him and then stopped in front of him. He was a towering boy who stood six foot two. He was solid, a man in a boy's body.
“You stink of fear, boy,” he said, lowering himself to Jack’s eye level. “Men, real men, smell your fear. You better swallow it if you expect to live through this,” he said, walking away with Fred.
“Don’t worry about Charlie and Fred, they’ll warm up to you eventually,” Jaque said, nudging him with his elbow.
“We’ll take the FDR along the East River,” Adam said, pointing to the river beside them.
“What’s the FDR?” Jack asked.
“The main road for us to reach our destination. We will follow it to 79th street. It’s about eight miles from here. So, I’ll set the rules for us to follow. If you fall behind, we’ll leave you there. Anyone have a problem with that?” Adam asked.
The boys shook their heads no and packed up. Adam jogged out of the encampment and down the road headed to the FDR. Jack had trouble keeping up with them as the others transversed the destroyed roadway. Rotting telephone poles and abandoned cars lined the three lanes heading north. Jack sprinted behind Billy and Fred while Adam and Charlie led the pack. Jaque brought up the rear, struggling to keep up.
As they ran the first mile, the stretch of road was silent. Jack could feel the blood pounding in his ears, the sweat dripping from his brow. The further he ran, the heavier his pack. As he climbed over a mound of substantially broken concrete mixed in with felled trees, he tripped.
Jaque snatched him by the collar, lifted him up, and kept running. Jack felt like he was watched from above. Finally, after a relatively flat stretch without any obstacles in his way, he glanced at the rooftops. He saw men leaning on their guns at the edge of the roof.
The others with Jack didn’t seem interested in them. Jack never even saw them look up. “Slavers,” Adam said, making eye contact with him. “Keep moving.”
The group ran for two miles without stopping until they reached a part of the road where a massive sinkhole had opened. The boys stayed at the edge and peered at the stagnant water floating near the top.
“Find some boards, we have to cross this,” Adam said.
They collected pieces of fencing, barbed wire, and pieces of wood to make a makeshift bridge to toss over the hole. They crossed in a single file and reached the other side. Jack turned around to keep running but felt a cold object leveled with his heart. He peeked up and saw a man wearing a bleached cow face for a mask. The spear in his hand pointed at Jack was well worn.
Jack watched the other boys raise their hands in surrender, and he followed suit. The riders dismounted and tied the boy's hands behind their backs. They left them with their packs to ease the burden of their horses.
“Metro’s,” Billy whispered, sliding one of his switchblades between his fingers.
“Who?” Jack asked.
“Slavers from the underground,” he said.
A slaver pushed Jack from behind. “Move.”
The slavers led them toward the metro. Skulls lined the road as they approached the camp. They watched as the slavers chained men and women to telephone poles and whipped them. Jack saw Adam tense; they walked by. It was if Jack could hear him grinding his teeth again.
Jack heard machine-gun fire behind him, and as he looked over his shoulder, he saw a half-track roll over the barbed wire blocking the road. The Metro’s closed around the boys in a semicircle and returned fire.
Someone kicked Jack to the ground and stood over him, firing. The man groaned and collapsed onto Jack, pinning him to the ground. Charlie yanked the body off him and pulled him to his feet. Jaque slipped by them with Fred and Billy and ran into an alley.
“Adam, come on!” Charlie shouted, pushing Jack towards the alley.
Adam ran along the road smashing the locks off the prisoners chained to the telephone poles. Charlie shouted at him again before following the others down the alley. Jack watched them escape and then stared at Adam, freeing everyone he could. The slaves scattered in different directions as the battle between the Metro’s and the other tribe grew in intensity.
Jack waited for a lull in the fighting and sprinted out to help him. A man in a cow mask clubbed Adam over the head, knocking him unconscious. Jack picked up a piece of round re-bar and slammed it across the man’s back as he ran past him. The man groaned and fell to his knees.
The machine-gun bullets fired from the half-track ricocheted around their small defilade near the metro station. The bullets struck the other Metro’s, killing them instantly. Jack threw his hands over his head and fell among the broken concrete screaming; I’m sorry, Toby. I’m so sorry.
A sense of ease and comfort stilled his screams. He slowed his breathing, eyes wide. The sound of explosions drowned out all the other noise around him. A few moments later, Jack crawled over to Adam. He attempted to pull his leg and dr
ag him to safety, but Adam was wedged under two bodies.
“Leave me,” Adam said with a grunt.
Jack strained against the weight and pulled Adam’s shoe off. He cursed and pulled again. Two men ran through the defilade and pulled Jack with them.
He fought the best he could, but they overpowered him. As they reached the entrance to the Metro, an aluminum bat snuck out from behind a pillar, knocking both men down the long flight of stairs.
“You stink of fear, now get to the alley. I’ll get Adam!” Charlie shouted, shoving Jack.
Jack shook his head no and grabbed another piece of rebar. “We go together.”
Charlie gave a curt nod and led the way back to Adam. As they reached him, they found Fred, Billy, and Jaque lifting him up. The boys helped each other through the rubble and carried him to the alley.
The fighting intensified, and piles of bodies lay across the skull lined street. The acrid smoke from the fire in the blue barrels gave Jack a splitting headache as he rushed past them. The boys ran to the end of the alley and burst through a rotting door covered in vines.
Charlie slammed the door, picked up a dresser, and shoved it against the door. Fred wedged a large school desk behind it as Charlie moved to a nearby window. The room was dark, a silent, deadly dark. Charlie yanked one of the boards off, blocking the sun.
He watched the remaining Metro’s put into chains by the other tribe and dragged away. Red hopped off the turret and looked around. He walked over to the man in a cow mask to question him. Charlie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but from the viciousness of the blows, Red was landing told him what the man said wasn’t pleasant.
Jack peered through the window behind Charlie, and his breathing intensified. “Red,” he mumbled.
“You know him?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, he’s been trying to kill me,” Jack muttered.
Charlie grunted and looked at the others. Jaque lay on the ground, arms outstretched. The others sat with their backs against the wall, drinking from their canteens.
“Hey Jaque, get up, bud, we got work to do,” Billy said.
Jack heard Jaque grunt, then walked over to him, his canteen extended. Billy knelt next to him as Jack looked him over.
