by Keys, Logan
“Don’t worry,” she says. “The guards don’t come past this part.”
I hesitate for obvious reasons. “Where are we going?”
“You know how New York had Long Island, the City, and Harlem? Rich folks in their own space are like Long Island, you and I live in the City, and this …” We step turn into an alleyway where people are funneled into a building. “ … is Harlem.”
It’s a gymnasium at the end, only five times the normal size. Two rugged men wearing camo and carrying guns stand at the entrance. By the sound from inside, there must be hundreds of people in there.
Manda winks at one of the men standing at the door, and he smiles, flashing a gold tooth before nodding us through.
We’re shoved around once inside, jostled in the crowd. There’s music playing, and tables for gaming. Some people even hold the leashes of large muzzled dogs. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a dog, though these aren’t fluffy house pets.
We pass a game of dice, and one guy rolls before he reaches for the cash stacked in the middle of a ring of people. I’m towed away by Manda, barely moved clear of the swinging fists when a fight breaks out as they identify a cheater.
“Where are we?” I ask.
She laughs and pulls out a cigarette. “This, my friend, is paradise. But ya might know it bettah if I just say it’s the black mahket where we trade the kinds of things the Authority’s nixed. Folks that run this place, they go into the wilds to get stuff.”
“The wilds…?”
“Yeah.” Manda nods, brown eyes sparkling. “A bunch of the guys go into the old cities. Fight the zombies. So hot, right?”
Manda reaches across a nearby table to grab a cup. She digs into her pocket and leaves some bills behind. “Here.” She hands the cup to me and takes another for herself.
Real money; she’d pulled out green cash from the old days. She gestures for me to drink, but I stare into the fizzy yellow liquid with reluctance.
“It’s beeah. Sorta. The only kind we can make.”
My brain translates: beer.
The guy behind the table nods at me, waiting eagerly while I try a sip. Bitter, but definitely tasty. “This is very good!” I tell him.
We check out the various booths. In one, music boxes sit on glass shelves, and my fingers feel each one before I move on. None have a ballerina like mine. A pang comes at the thought that I’ll never see her again. How I miss my little music box.
A young tattoo artist is taking customers at the next booth. The whir of his gun buzzes above the talking and the music. His drawings are beautiful, and the work he’s done practically leaps off the skin in 3D.
A set of angel’s wings in his book catches my eye.
“Those are new,” a deep voice says over my shoulder, startling me. The tattoo artist has taken a break and come to join me.
I pet the feathers that look so alive on the page. “They’re amazing.”
He’s got a cocksure grin and pretty green eyes that flick up and down the length of my body, making me self-conscious. “They’re meant to be on the back,” he says, “each wing on the shoulder blade.” His touch on my back makes me blush. He notices the short hair beneath my hoodie, but seems to shrug it off.
“Well … I’d better find my friend,” I say, still smiling at him. I can’t stop. The beer’s made me fuzzy in the hot environment, and I’m steadying myself against the table.
The tattoo gun starts up again, and the artist leans over his customer to fill in an outlined image of a spider. The young woman turns her head to look at me through dull black eyes. Lines—scars—crisscross her cheeks. She stares as if daring me to look away, and when she sees that I won’t, one corner of her mouth lifts.
“Found her,” a deep voice calls nearby.
A dark-skinned man holding a big gun walks toward the tattoo booth with meaning. Manda’s nowhere to be seen, and this man jerks his chin in my direction. “Are you the girl who came from the Island?”
I glance around stunned. But before I’ve worked out my answer, he leans into the booth and roughly yanks back my hoodie. Upon seeing my hair, he sucks his teeth and grabs my arm.
“Hey, wait!” I cry. “Where are you taking me? Where’s Manda?”
Everyone stops to watch as the man tows me along like so much luggage. “Kiniva wants to see you,” he mutters.
“Kanana who?”
“Kiniva.” He pulls me back the way we’d come. “He runs this place.”
“Why?”
The muscle ignores me.
We exit into a hallway through a side door. With so many twists and turns after that, I quickly lose my way. He pushes me into a room that’s furnished well and lit poorly.
On the far end there’s a man sitting in a leather chair. He’s got two leashed dogs that strain their tethers, growling.
“Tranquilo,” the man says between cigar puffs.
Above, lights flicker with too little infused electricity, and there’s a constant drip of water. An unmistakable musky scent of sweaty men permeates the air. We’re lower here, maybe beneath the black market.
With the cigar clenched between large front teeth, the man says, “This latina, Amanda, is she your friend?” He’s dressed in old-style military fatigues of dark green and black, and a maroon beret tops off the image. The gun in his lap is his only other accessory and incredibly modern by contrast.
My nod is cordial.
Kiniva squints when a tendril of smoke finds his eye. “She says to me that someone’s come back from the Island. This true?”
Another nod.
He tsks as if in challenge, while the man holding me brings me closer. “The thing about that place is nobody ever comes back,” Kiniva says, curling a finger around the cigar to motion at me with it. “No. Body. I’m sure you know this to be the case. These other mensos saying, la chica es un fantasma?” He elaborates when he thinks I’ve not understood, “Ghost, flaca, a ghost. They think you’re some … wooooowoooo …” Kiniva wiggles his other hand while making a ghost’s howl. “Estan todos locos? Are they all crazy…?”
He doesn’t let me answer, not that trying to explain I’m corporeal makes any sense. Instead, Kiniva stands and puts a hand out in front of the dogs to stay them. When they fail to listen, he pivots and barks at them—actually barks, as if he’s a dog—before shouldering the gun to walk a circle of smoke around me. He flicks my cheek, making me flinch. “I’m no so supersticioso as those other men; I don’t believe in the spooky things that are really bed sheets in the night.” He puts the cigar into my face. “But I did have to see for myself. You feel as real as any skinny girl I’ve ever met. So, you did really come from the Island, no? They let you go?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“I see….” But his expression is clearly one of confusion. Kiniva gestures to me, then back. “Why do they have to keep us so tightly under their heels? Do you think it’s because when you are sick, that is all they see? And my skin, my accent, that is all they see…?”
“Maybe.”
He puffs on his cigar.
The beer has made me brave. “Or they’re afraid of us.”
Kiniva’s gaze sharpens, and he snubs the cigar on a boot, leaning forward with new interest. He gestures for me to continue.
“Maybe they don’t like different,” I go on, “because in this place, it’s easier to control when everything’s the same. You can make slaves out of the same. You’re right; they don’t like me because they can’t control my sickness.” Stepping forward, I conceal a smile when Kiniva swallows and covers his nose. “Permit me to explain, Señor Kiniva, in … Creo que tiene todas las armas que necesita para ser una amenaza. You cannot be controlled. You cannot be understood. The Authority does not like that at all.”
“We are all so civilized,” he says, “while the Authority is allowed to ravage us like rabid dogs.”
He returns to his place near the chair and rubs the massive dome of one of his obviously augmented beasts. They’re h
umongous, eyes wild and red. They are not your average canine.
“It is only right to put down the animals who turn on us,” Kiniva says. “What say you to that, Ghost Lady?”
My gaze meets his evenly, and he can glean from it what he will.
He laughs. “Si, señorita. I think you and I see eye to eye on this. That island, it must have left a nice impression.”
Kiniva thinks for a moment. “I’d like to invite you to the fights tonight.”
“Dog fights are not really to my taste.”
He chuckles, then gives a whistle. The dogs follow, and he winks at me as they move past. “They do not fight each other, Bonita. Never each other. They are brothers. United.”
This other building where the fights are held is even larger than the first. Stacked seats, stadium-style, hold bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s nothing short of ripe in here. But I’m distracted by the gathering itself.
Hope wells at the visual proof that the Authority hasn’t reined in everyone just yet.
But it’s possible they see a benefit to this place. Let the citizens become strong, but keep their minds weak.
At the stadium’s center is a large fenced ring floored with sand, and that makes me nervous. I’m not exactly spectator material for gladiator fights; I’d just rather buy my books and leave.
And I still haven’t seen Manda. Declining Kiniva’s offer would have been rude, so hopefully she’ll spot me in the crowd and help me sneak away during the fight.
Kiniva has me in his row, and people are staring. Curiosity sits in a few gazes, outright hostility in others.
Handlers walk Kiniva’s massive animals into the arena on the far side. Once free, the dogs attack the fences, but not each other and I let go a breath.
The crowd’s cheer is proof that what happens next is not unexpected by anyone but myself. Other handlers approach the ring, only these are leading zombies.
Two undead, chained at the legs and hands, struggle at the end of long poles, heads in wooden boxes with holes so they can’t bite anyone, although that doesn’t stop them from trying.
I’m so surprised that I can only gape as they march them onto a platform where, in one swift movement, the handlers unshackle and un-box them before pushing them into the pit.
The zombies land on the sand with a fleshy thud, now stuck inside the arena with the dogs. A buzzer sounds and a timer starts to count upward from zero. I cover my eyes.
The crowd’s roar is deafening, and I sneak a peek through my fingers. I’ve never seen zombies outside of being chased back on the Island or the one inside the theatre bathroom. These have eaten recently, and it’s obvious how they change tactic from the fence to the dogs as soon as they realize the futility of clawing at the metal.
There is some sort of minimal thought involved in this decision that raises the hair on my arms. The zombies’ snapping jaws and swinging arms make Kiniva’s animals more careful, too. The two canine brothers look like pit bulls, only three times the size, with wiry fur that curls away from their massive heads. And they work together with such precision—one leads a zombie off, while the other grabs a foot or an ankle; a method they do in several rotations. Seems they’d been trained for this purpose alone.
The work is quick, and red streaks the sand as the dogs finish off the undead in an array of impressively deadly maneuvers.
Before another round can begin, I’m rushing off, hand over my churning stomach. “Bad idea, Liza,” I whisper to myself. “Very, very bad idea.”
The nearest doors spit me back outside instead of into the hallways. Night’s cool air is helping already, though, and I lean against the building’s brick wall with my eyes closed, thinking about heading home on my own. Manda will just have to find me later.
A figure moves in the shadows of the alleyway, startling me. He stops not far from where I stand.
“You can breathe again,” he says. “I already know you’re there.” He seems to notice my hesitation. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”
That’s what Grey Eyes said, but I’m too busy forcing myself not to puke to try to run. “Would you warn me if you were?” I ask.
“Probably not.” He laughs.
It’s a nice laugh. Doesn’t sound like the laugh a murderer would have. Or a rapist. My sigh from that insane thought is long and loud. Probably the beer.
“You sound too young to be so depressed,” he says.
There’s the hint of a smile in his voice. It’s a nice voice—deep, steady.
“I was just thinking, is all.”
“What about?”
Everything comes out at once. “About how you say I sound too young to be down, and how ironic that is, because at my age, my mother was skydiving over volcanoes and zip lining through the jungle while being offered dance positions in every country that held major studios, and my father, well, he had composed his second great symphony and requiem. So actually, for my age, I’m quite behind, being thoroughly depressed over some larger-than-life issue and career, and very aptly depressed over the state of things, and rightly so, if you ask me, which you didn’t, and here I am blathering …”
Hand to my head, I mutter to myself, “Instead of having those types of opportunities, I’m watching dogs shred people in some sort of underground cage match.”
Silence hangs between us while I wonder if I haven’t scared him off. Not that that would be a bad thing.
He makes a noise in his throat and says, “That’s strange.”
“Which part?”
“You’re the only other person I’ve ever heard who’s referred to them as people.”
I sniffle. “Well, I don’t usually, but one time … oh, never mind.”
“No, what? Tell me.” He shuffles closer.
“I swear, there was this one … it was as if—this may sound strange—but it was like … it wanted to say something to me.” I move into the moonlight. “Does that sound crazy?”
He comes forward, as well. “Not at all.”
I’d recognize those purple eyes anywhere. At once, they fill with surprise, seeming to almost light up.
“You,” he says.
I cross my arms. “And you.”
“But, your hair…?”
The blonde patch of recent growth is kinky but there; it’s starting to find my old curls already. “It was a wig,” I say.
He steps forward some more, and I sense that he’s angry. “Why’d you save me?”
“What?”
Jeremy Writer balls up his fists. “I wanted to die for the cause! I had it all planned out. It was going to help start a revolution. Maybe not right then, but later.”
Irritation boils inside, though not enough to get myself throttled by a revolutionary. What kind of sociopath is this guy?
“I thought I was helping you,” I tell him.
He cuts off a dry laugh with the back of his hand. “Helping me!” His incredulity echoes down the alleyway. “I got caught on purpose. I signed the damned things with my own name!”
Anger twists the face of his ignorant zeal.
My guffaw echoes, as well. “You’re certainly in the right place for a suicidal breakdown! This is the place to die, in fact. Perfect timing, too, because your chances of dying nowadays are incredibly high! Why don’t you just turn yourself in, then, huh? I’m sure the Authority would just love to grant you your wish.”
But Jeremy shakes his head. “It needed to be then. It could have sparked an uprising. I’d wanted … I just hoped it would have been enough.”
I give another sniff. Jeremy seems to have brought out the snob in me. “Ugh. Martyrdom is so last century. I thought you were a patriot. Now it turns out you’re just some sort of nutjob.”
He stares at my hair again like something’s dawned on him. “Why’s your hair so short? What are you, sick or something?”
Manda’s voice cuts through my curt reply as she jogs toward us. “There you are! Are you all right?”
“
Yeah,” I say with disgust. I look Jeremy Writer up and down with a piercing glare. “I was just leaving.”
We turn to go, but he grabs my sweater. “Wait.”
In a flash, Manda steps between us and presses a blade to his neck. “My girl Mozart here was just leavin, capiche?”
He ignores her, still staring at me with those bizarre violet eyes. “Mozart, huh? Why do they call you that?”
Smugness replaces my surprise. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s the same reason they call you Writer.”
“Yeah,” Manda says slyly. “And how ya gonna do any writin’ without a head?”
Incredibly, Jeremy Writer smiles.
I’m half tempted to go without my books, but after the night I’ve had, I’ll be damned if I leave empty handed. Cold sweat makes my clothes cling to me, yet I’m too embarrassed to ask if it’s the beer that’s causing it.
I rummage through hard copies and paperbacks at the booth we’d finally found with books. In the second pile, I find a copy of Moby Dick for almost nothing because the cover’s been ripped off. While Manda waits for me, a guy comes over to her and offers her some money, which she takes, and he starts kissing her right then and there.
“Hey, wait!” she calls when she notices that I’m leaving.
“I’ll head home.”
“Not by yourself.”
My meaningful look at her customer is obvious. “Aren’t you busy?” I ask. “You go ahead and … work. I’ll see you later.”
Confusion fills her face. “What?” Then, realization dawns, and she laughs. “Oh, girl, ya think I’m some kind of street walkah?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Ay yi yi, mamacita, no! Not even money is gonna get me to do that with these losahs. Come ovah here.” She drags me back. “This here’s my boo, Lug. We run contraband through the black mahket. He was giving me my cut from tonight’s sales.”
Lug leans forward to say hello. Something’s rolled up behind his ear. “Manda says you’re good people. She don’t like most girls, neither, so, I figure she’s right. You stayin’ at the warehouse? That little nerd, Journee, used to work down here, too, but he’s popped those freebies from the Authority in his mouth. Actin’ like he rich, shaved off them braids like he could hide his roots. White folk …” He breaks off with a laugh.
