"No more surprises," she says.
"No more surprises," I agree.
* * *
The trade-over takes nine minutes total, including emptying a few toilet septic tanks, supplies being traded and people switching vehicles. It is a smooth and perfectly oiled maneuver, all the parts interchanging with clockwork precision, and I feel proud.
On the way up to the kids' car I let myself be seen, hobbling along on Lara's arm.
It's good to let the people see me, alive and moderately well. The ones who like me will be cheered. The ones who want a new Mayor will see I'm present but not interfering with the process. At one point I see Masako, as we go past her RV toward the kid's car.
"That was brave," I tell her. "I know it wasn't easy."
She watches me with disdain, standing with her husband Alan holding her arm like he's restraining her. I know it must sound patronizing for me to say that, but I mean it, and I want her to know I'm not angry. Still, it's strange to see so much anger fuming off her, when I never really saw it before.
"She hates you a lot," Lara whispers in my ear. "That or she's just really constipated."
I snort.
"I wouldn't blame her," Lara goes on, "it's hard to shit in a moving RV. Plus the demons are terrible for digestion."
Ravi runs down to us from the lead RVs. When he sees us his eyes swim with tears. He stops and takes my hand with both of his, like I'm the Pope.
Ravi is such a good boy. In school he'd no doubt be the sweet, dumb jock who doesn't even realize there's a clique system going on. He pursued Anna for years, and was too bull-headed to ever take her cruelty, sarcasm and disdain as a definitive no. He adored her like a puppy loves its master.
"I don't blame you," he says, getting right to it. "For Anna, I mean. She went because she wanted to, I know it. She never did anything she didn't want to."
I don't know what to say to that. It means a lot. My throat gets tight and my eyes get watery. He sees it and watches me like a little kid, like Vie or Talia when they've fallen and hurt their knee and are lost in that moment, trying to decide how much they need to cry.
"Thanks," I say, and pull him into a hug. He's strong and pulls Lara in with us. I guess we were surrogate parents for him too. He came to us at fourteen after being alone for four years, playing video games and eating chocolate in Louisiana. He was fat then but quickly burned it off, becoming a powerful young man. I pat his back, getting misty-eyed. "We'll talk when this is over. We'll have proper funerals for them, and services and everything, I promise."
He nods, plainly not trusting himself to speak, then walks quickly away rubbing at his eyes.
Outside the kids' car Feargal comes over, a solidly built athletic guy a head taller than me, with a shiny bald head kind of like an Irish 'The Rock'. He holds out his big hand and I shake it.
"You're doing the right thing with this," he says. "Better late than never."
I smile. I've always liked Feargal, even though he's been a pain over the years. I never wanted yes-men, though, and he's a good guy. "Thanks."
"And out there?" he points behind us. "Amazing. That explosion was better than any stump speech I've ever seen. I don't think you can lose."
"I didn't plan it. I thought I was going to die."
He smiles back. "That's why you'll win. What Masako said about the mistakes, we don't all agree with that. I wouldn't have done it any differently. For me it's not personal, it's more about the democratic process."
"It's a good process," I say. "We had it for centuries."
He nods seriously, shakes Lara's hand too, then walks back toward the front.
I look around but I don't see Witzgenstein.
"She'll be glad-handing," Lara says, reading my thoughts. "Door-stepping, leafleting, kissing babies."
"Too busy to pay a call on us."
"I don't want to see her anyway."
We get in the RV.
The floor is a riot of kids' toys in bright plasticky colors; soft teddies and Lego bricks and My Little Ponies, wooden blocks and iPads and rollable piano floor sheets. On the walls are all manner of palm-print paintings and origami crafts, featuring a madcap array of explosions and demons and zombies.
The gaggle of five kids and two babies are being watched over carefully by Cynthia's beady eye. She doesn't look any older than the day I first saw her, a crusty, hillbilly granny.
"Daddy!" Vie calls, suddenly overjoyed.
"Mommy!" Talia matches him. They run up and grab us, and it helps me get my priorities straight again.
This is what it's for. These kids, these people, this group. My family.
"I'm sick of all the shitting," Cynthia says, in her classic redneck accent. "Fifty diapers a day, in a contained space? I'm done."
With that pronouncement she gets out and Macy gets in, swapped from another RV. Lara takes the wheel and moments later we pull away, leaving me concussed in the back and getting trounced by all the kids; Masako's four-year-old boy Lin, Landry's five-year-old Siobhan, Vie, Talia and Rose, Martha and Tom's daughter.
They babble at me in tongues, pulling me by a finger each to show me what they won in the last game they played, the painting they did last night, the cubbyhole they slept in, the new half forward roll they mastered.
Lara and Macy crack up at the front while volunteer nannies Jorge, Maris and Janine slump at the sides on beanbags and sigh with relief.
"What happened to your face, Daddy?" Talia asks, pulling me down to kneel before her in the middle of a game of Blind Man's Bluff, with that intense seriousness children sometimes get. She points at my cheek. "There."
"I was bitten by a manticore," I say, ad-libbing wildly. "Have you ever seen a manticore? It has the head of a lion and the body of a goat and the tail of a snake."
I mime a manticore with some hissing and scary shaking of hands, which terrifies Vie and the others, though Talia is probably too old for it.
"Daddy, stop being silly. Vie, he's being silly."
"It came out of the desert and tried to bite my head off, but I bit its head off instead." I bare my razor sharp teeth and pat my belly. "It's in here now. I bet you can't draw me a picture of that dinner scene. Best one gets a ride round the RV on the back of a manticore-killer."
They probably only half-understand what I'm saying, but it gets them all scribbling on paper furiously; an assortment of lion, goat and snake bits, with a few hippopotami and eagle bits thrown in for good measure, and me sitting at the head of a big table waiting to eat.
"Praise the Lord," says Janine from her beanbag, clearly enjoying the respite, "you have my vote." The world wavers a little as my concussion knocks me silly, but I get my balance back and play it off with a cheerful grin.
"Go tell it on the mountain," I tell her and wink, making her blush.
"Daddy, pay attention," Talia says, tugging me back down to her level. "I know it wasn't a manticore, it was the big explosion. I want to know, are you really all right? They talked about you on the radio a lot."
I give her a big hug, the biggest yet of the day. "Sweetheart, I'm going to be just fine. We all are. I promise."
I look up and Lara catches my eye. Making promises I don't know if I can keep.
14. FIRST MAYOR
It's a wonderful day.
I put aside all the death, the politics and the demons and I play with my kids. I'm not mayor anymore and the weight of responsibility coming off is a huge release.
We play hide-and-seek up and down the RV, until the simple, obvious fact of hiding in the booths, amongst the supply crates and under the same blankets becomes ridiculously funny in itself. We play Monopoly for very short bursts, fighting over the shoe and the iron, until one of the younger kids grabs the money and starts throwing it around and we all play the grabbing money game instead. We make crafts, and I judge the manticore competition and give the promised manticore-slayer ride, despite my head throbbing and the wound in my cheek pulling tight every time I smile.
&nbs
p; Lara swaps out of driving for Jorge, and comes back to help me lead story time, where we read one story for the older kids, The Hunger Games, and one for the littler kids, Three Little Pigs. We have a nap and I snooze with Lara lying next to me and Vie and Talia cuddle up close like kittens.
The convoy rumbles on. Up ahead they have the radio on low and a curtain up so the carers can go join in the political discussions without alarming the kids, or, perhaps, alarming me.
I don't care. My head spins and ribs ache and this is just perfect.
"Mr. Amo," Masako's boy mumbles at me, Lin, waking me from a daydream about Anna.
"Just Amo," I tell him. "What is it?"
"Is my mommy mad at you?"
I consider. Lin is just five, between Talia and Vie, and it's funny to think of all the things he doesn't know. So much happened before he was born, and how could I ever catch him up on all of it?
But that's my job now, as a parent. I'm a custodian of the old world, passing along as much of it as I can, as accurately as possible. I've had my biases all along though. I ran the settlement. I wrote our history. Even though I tried to be fair, our story can't truly be fair when I write it all by myself.
Lin's looking at me, so I smile. "Buddy, I think she is. You can ask her about it."
"But you're a hero," he says sleepily.
I grin despite myself. "I know, right? You're right. You should tell your mom that."
I'll get in trouble for that, but I don't care. Brainwashing kids is more of a misdemeanor.
"OK," he mumbles. I start back to sleep but now Talia's interested and she's not going to let me off so easily.
"Dad, why is Masako mad at you?"
She's properly awake, not like Lin. I sigh and smile at her, extending my arms. She wriggles out of the crook of Lara's belly, worms over her legs and snuggles in next to me.
"That's a long story, surgarpop," I say, halfway drifting back to sleep myself. "Long and boring."
"Dad," she says in her frank, stop-patronizing-me tone. "I'm not a baby, like Lin. You can tell me."
I smile. "There's only one year between you."
"I'm much taller."
Her logic is impeccable. This is what I've taught her, I guess. So I tell her the story as best as I know it, with the rough edges filed off and the juicier bits of gossip removed; Masako and Cerulean, then Masako and Julio, then Cerulean and Anna. She drifts back to sleep as I drone on, until by the end she's snoring against my chest, but I finish up anyway.
"You're hard on yourself," Lara says, rolling over. Seems like everyone here is awake, pretending to be asleep. Her deep green eyes rest on my face, like a painter appraising her subject. "Masako being angry has nothing to do with you."
"Stop eavesdropping on my conversations," I say.
"Stop having them five inches away from me then."
I shuffle down, so we're face to face. In a pile of kids, with Vie and Talia sandwiched between us, I give my wife a tender kiss.
"Better?" I ask, as I'm nodding off in the warmth and lullaby vibration of the RV.
"Better," she agrees.
* * *
In the evening, two days after we fled New LA, the convoy stops again. I'm exhausted in the best way possible, drained from the endless demands of the kids. For twenty-four hours we've played, and slept, and read stories and had tantrums and played some more. I haven't done anything like that for months. Years, maybe.
We're in Illinois now, just across the border from Missouri and outside St. Louis. Through the back window the world has turned white and cold. Snow covers the fields and forests and mountains. Dead brown Japanese strangleweed fills out the highway verges, spiking through the thick drifts of white snow like coils of rusted razor wire. The road is icy and cracked ahead.
One of the RV's has broken down, dropping us down to eight. The camshaft broke apparently, and we can't make those kinds of repairs on the road. Instead people rapidly strip it for parts and supplies, portioning its members out to other vehicles. I listen to Ravi out there, Feargal too, suggesting we use the downtime to put on snow chains and refuel. Jake would be out there with them, if we still had Jake.
"I'll go help," says Lara and heads out. "We were due a break anyway." I let her go, happy to stay slumped on my beanbag while the kids decorate me with bangles. I'm a real life Buckin' Bronco, about ready to flip. The kids are watching with delicious, giggling anticipation as Vie delicately tries to hang a rubber band on my nose for the third time.
I'm about to pop and tickle him half to death when the door clanks again and someone comes in.
"Amo, we need to talk."
I look up, sending the rubber band pinging off my nose and the kids lurching backwards, to see Witzgenstein standing in the RV's doorway.
Ah, Witzgenstein.
She's wearing a frown, looking down at me. Witzgenstein doesn't have kids, maybe out of choice but also because she's not married. She's slim, good-looking and about the same age as me. Her hair is tied back in sweet, Princess Leia-ish farm girl buns. She's got a pointed chin, pretty blue eyes and is dressed like a model, in skinny designer jeans, figure-hugging white blouse and jacket that once would've cost thousands.
She doesn't wear a gun. I expect in those clothes she couldn't even run; but then running's not her thing. She's a bureaucrat with as much talent as ambition, and she doesn't like me and never has.
"Is this what you're doing?" she asks. There's no sneer attached, because she's not petty. She's a smart woman who sees the world through a different lens, and she's honestly surprised to find me knee-deep in kids, still wearing blusher from the paint-Amo-as-a-princess game we just played earlier. Probably she expected me to be hunkered in a corner of the RV, frantically making calls and counting votes, hungry to maintain my grip on power.
But then she knows I'm not crazy, either. We've worked together a hundred times, and for all the dislike, I believe there's at least respect.
I shoo the kids away and shake off the rubber bands hanging off my ears and fingers. "This is what I'm doing, Witzgenstein. Good to see you."
"You look a mess."
I groan to my feet. The dizziness is mostly gone, though all the little cuts and scrapes have turned into scabs and rich purple bruises.
"I blew up an RV. It happens."
She nods, dismissing this as she would dismiss a story of me defeating a Yeti or learning to fly. It's not on her radar, not part of the way she sees the world. For her, leadership is about getting away from all that, as if somehow this kind of trouble only manifests because I'm not managing things correctly.
"We should talk."
I look at her. She's basically a nice lady. I'd like her if she wasn't so blind to the way I see the world. For me it's about the big picture. For her it's about serving the community, in spite of reality.
"There's a vote due," I say, "any time, by my count. Shouldn't we talk after that?"
Witzgenstein looks around at the children, now watching her suspiciously. She looks at Janine who's asleep in the booth and comes to a decision.
"You're going to win," she says. "It's obvious, especially after the exploding RV. That's what I want to talk about."
"Is that recent polling data?" I push back, a little annoyed by her 'exploding RV' line, like it was a campaign gimmick. "Have you been robo-calling?"
My attempt to tease her rolls right off her back. "For one minute, please Amo?" It's probably why she doesn't like me.
"We're talking," I say. "So talk. The votes aren't counted."
She takes her chance. "You did the right thing, putting it to a vote. That's the consensus, but it's not enough, especially now you're set to win. It doesn't satisfy me, or Masako or any of the others who aren't happy. We're a minority but we should be represented."
I nod. I've expected something like this. It's been percolating away in the back of my mind all day. "Division of powers," I say.
Her frown deepens, probably annoyed that I've reached the conclusion withou
t her help. "Yes. There's no clear protocol for how to do that, though. I have no right to call a motion or a second vote. I could, but then I'm setting myself up. My point is, it's not an open floor."
She looks at me. I look at her. Is she asking to be appointed to something? Vice-mayor, perhaps. She'd be good. Even prime minister, with me as president, like in Russia; we could have a figurehead and big-picture thinker working in tandem with someone who ran the practicalities of the country.
But she doesn't want ideas from me. The whole point of this is for me to back off on control.
"You were the county clerk, what do you suggest?"
This appeal to her expertise eases the frown. "A Senate. Or, to stay within the mayoral system, a Council. I'd suggest five people, selected by election. The precise powers would have to be negotiated; that could take time, but generally speaking it will allow for checks and balances, a better form of representation, and yes, division of powers. Also, term-limits."
I rub my chin. Curiously enough there's a bruise there too. "I've been mayor for ten years already. I should be beyond all term limits."
She does a good job of not showing her discomfort with this. The fact that I'm due to win the election must really grate on her, and making a tortuously argued deal for me to cede power in exchange for a few more years must be even worse. "It would be a formal system now, so the clock resets," she says, wriggling on her own hook. "I can imagine four-year terms, two terms total, meaning eight more years maximum."
We regard each other. It's a good deal; something for me, something for her, and everybody gets what they want. A Council is a good idea. It would share responsibility, expertise, and put checks on me in case I go crazy, or the next mayor does. It prevents dictatorships. Also, if all goes to plan and we get a fresh flood of survivors joining us, it'll start to be ridiculous to have only one man ruling over them all.
"Let's add five Council positions to the voting roster," I say. "We can discuss and vote on powers at an open meeting later. Better to get this done."
"I agree."
A moment passes. "I'm sure you'll be on the Council," I say.
The Last Mayor Box Set 2 Page 18
