Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘Maybe they were right,’ Carl said, growing impatient with the man’s verbal wanderings. ‘Did you ever think of that?’

  ‘Of course I do . . . every single day, every single night,’ Caz said, eyes blinking. ‘When I pass through these tunnels, I look at these young people and they stare right at me, like I’m a living relic, a living connection to a past they could only dream about, when there was plenty of food and safety. Sometimes ... I feel sometimes that they would like to murder me for my sins, of which I have plenty. And that was another reason I went to Boston, you know. To see if I could atone, to see if I could give something back to these young people who let me live.’

  Caz looked around again and leaned forward, tapping Carl on the knee, and he tried not to flinch. It was like being touched by a dead man. ‘That’s why you must find those papers, you know. You have to find out where Merl hid them. Only then, only then, will he truly live.’

  The Caz he had first met, the scared old man, was back now. ‘Do the papers tell how Kennedy escaped? Or do they tell where he’s still being hidden?’

  The old man folded his arms, rocked back and forth some more, and shook his head. ‘That’s all I can say.’ He whispered. ‘You haven’t shown me that you have the need to know.’

  ~ * ~

  He was going up the corridor outside the conference room, when Jim Rowley stepped out of his office, a mug of tea in his hand. ‘How did the visit go?’

  Carl stopped, rubbed at his eyes. ‘It went all right. Sort of around in circles.’

  Jim said, ‘Did you get what you needed?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t rightly know.’

  Up and down the corridor, the true residents of New York City went about their business. Jim looked at Carl, and Carl had the odd feeling that he was being tested, that he was being evaluated. Jim cleared his throat and handed his tea mug to one of the guards outside his door.

  ‘I know you’ve got just a few hours to catch some sleep before you leave, but could you give me some time? I have something I want to show you.’

  Carl didn’t feel as tired as he did before. ‘Sure. Go right ahead.’

  Jim stayed silent as they walked, and Carl followed along, watching how the tunnel residents dipped their heads in respect as he passed. It was like young royalty, he thought, moving among his people. They went into a dark part of the subway station, past another barricade where a couple of young men were sitting, holding what looked like police revolvers in their hands. The way was lit by flickering oil lamps in the wall, and there was a steady dripping of water.

  ‘This used to be one of our upcoming projects,’ Jim explained, as he went to a closed door that was fastened shut with a combination lock. ‘We had plans to fix the leaks, lay down foundation work for more housing, expand some in here.’

  ‘What happened to your plans?’ he asked, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

  Jim unsnapped the lock and opened the door, which led into a well-lit room. ‘Like all plans,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they change. Go right in, will you?’

  Carl did, and Jim closed the door behind them. It was another meeting room, but it was in better shape than the other one, with polished wood furniture. There was a man sitting at the end of the table, and as he stood up, Carl froze, not able to move at all.

  The man wore the uniform of the U.S. Army, and in his hands, he held a green beret, the headgear of Special Forces.

  Carl turned on Jim. ‘You bastard, is this a set up? Is this what it is?’

  Jim laughed, the skin of his scarred face stretching into a grin. ‘Jesus, Carl, relax. I want you to meet someone. This is Sergeant Paul Picard of the U.S. Army. Paul, this is Carl Landry of the Boston Globe.’

  ‘Sir,’ the soldier said, holding out a hand. Carl grasped it and gave it a quick shake. The young soldier’s uniform was worn and mud splattered, not spit and polish. He had short-cropped blond hair and he looked muscular and fit, unlike most of the residents Carl had seen in the past few hours.

  ‘And another thing,’ Jim said, sitting down and motioning Carl to a chair. ‘Paul is also a proud member of PS 19. Right?’

  Sergeant Picard grinned and sat down. ‘You’ve got that right, Jim.’

  Carl took the chair, staring at the soldier in disbelief and then looking over at Jim, who was sitting there looking self-satisfied, with his hands clasped satisfactorily against his chest. ‘You ... PS 19, you’ve got intelligence sources in the military?’

  Jim grinned again. ‘Well, we’ve seen the ads from old newspapers and magazines that get smuggled in here, about how it’s every young man’s duty to respect the draft and serve their time. Some years back, we figured we ought to do our civic duty, Carl, and some of our fellows volunteered to go out into the world and join up. The Army’s so eager for bodies, they don’t look too hard into backgrounds. All our guys had to say was that they were orphans, that Mom and Dad had been in Miami or Omaha back in ‘62, and that was enough for the recruiters.’

  Carl said, ‘Not all of them would end up in Manhattan, would they?’

  ‘No, but enough,’ Jim said, and then his smile vanished. Enough to give us some sleepless days, and change some plans. What you said earlier, about the British troops and the supplies being stockpiled, we had some inkling about that. You confirmed it, though, and for that, we’re grateful. But there’s something else, something else I want you to hear from Paul here.’

  Carl looked over at the sergeant and for a moment saw himself sitting there, wearing the same uniform, having the same confidence of being in good health and being an elite soldier.

  ‘I appreciate the offer, but why?’

  Jim looked at the sergeant and then at Carl. ‘Because we might need your help.’

  He looked into Jim’s face, a young man who had listened to his teachers and who had taken care of his classmates, all these years, and who had built this underground city.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  Sergeant Picard nodded. ‘Thanks. Like I told Jim earlier, I’m sorry I didn’t get better information. But I figured I had to get here soonest with what I did have. You see, last week, I was in Fort Drum, up near Watertown. I was working late in our quarters, and a couple of colonels came in. They were drunk and looking to find a place to take a piss, which is why they were in my building. They were arguing, too, and at first I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then it got real clear and ... well, I asked for a quick emergency leave, so I could get back here.’

  Jim kept his hands clasped together. ‘Tell Carl what you told me, Paul.’

  The soldier stared at Carl. ‘There’s a deal, some secret deal, between London and the people backing Rockefeller. I don’t even think those two officers knew all the details ...But what they did know, really pissed them off. They weren’t happy.’

  Carl looked over at Jim. ‘The British who are coming in. Their government must be charging a stiff price indeed. Is that right?’

  Jim slowly nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what’s the price?’

  ‘Paul?’

  The soldier looked nervous. ‘The price is our nation.’

  Carl rubbed at his eyes, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. ‘What do you mean, our nation?’

  The soldier looked at Jim, as if for reassurance, and Jim gave a slight nod. Paul pressed on. ‘Again, I’m sorry, but I don’t know enough of the details. What I do know is that the troops are coming in soon, before the election. And after the election, Rockefeller, he’s gonna make an announcement. Something about the new relationship between the States and Great Britain. That was making the colonels real angry. They said, we’re giving up our nation for this, can you friggin’ believe it. And one of them said something about having to bow to the goddam Queen when this was all over.’

  ‘What kind of relationship?’

  Paul was twisting the beret in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t know. They were pretty drunk. But they were saying something about it being 1938 aga
in, and about how the slush is coming.’

  Carl said, ‘The what?’

  Paul’s face reddened. ‘I know it doesn’t make any sense. They just said, 1938. And that the slush is coming.’

  Jim said, ‘That’s it, right?’

  The soldier nodded. ‘Sorry, Jim. I know it’s not much. But I figured you had to know about the troops coming in. Hell, die election’s only weeks away and—’

  ‘Thanks, Paul,’ Jim said abruptly. He stood Up and so did Paul, and Carl slowly followed. ‘You heading back north?’

  ‘Yep. My pass expires in about twelve hours. It’ll be tight but I’m sure I’ll make it back to Fort Drum in time.’

  Jim went over and shook his hand, using a two-handed grip. ‘You’ve served your people well, Paul. Thanks again. Carl? Time for one more visit?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. The slush is coming. The slush from 1938.

  Earlier, he had spent time with an old man who had said he was insane.

  Was everyone here insane as well?

  ~ * ~

  They went through another locked door between two of the bookshelves, and into a long corridor. Jim grabbed a flashlight from a shelf and switched it on. The tunnel was narrow, made of brick, and went uphill at a slight grade for several minutes. It stopped at a rusting, metal ladder. Carl followed Jim up the ladder, wondering where in hell they were going, and thinking about all that had just gone on. Merl, the old vet with the list of names—now he was more than that. He was an old soldier who had gone on one more mission, one more mission armed with... secrets, according to Caz. Secret documents that would reveal that JFK still lived.

  Caz, an old and frightened CIA man, talking in circles, but talking about something real, something bad that was coming in just a few weeks.

  And then that young soldier. PS 19 had spies, spies in the U.S. Army, and the best intelligence that they could get was that it was 1938, and that the slush was coming.

  Jesus, he thought. And Jim was asking him, Carl Landry, for help. It seemed like the leader of PS 19 was adding a pretty stiff tariff to his and Sandy’s fare off this island.

  Sandy ... He hoped she was sleeping well, not wandering around, looking for him. It’d be hard to explain and—

  Jim lifted an overhead door of metal and wood, and Carl felt a cool breeze come down from above. He followed Jim up and found himself standing on the roof of a small building, closed in on both sides by taller brownstones. A quarter moon was up, illuminating the night. Covering half the roof was a structure with a closed door on its side. Jim rubbed his hands together and said, ‘I’ve got a serious question to ask you, Carl.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Caz, the guy you just talked to. To tell you the truth, we know him well. Did he say anything about some old documents, documents that could mean a lot in the next few weeks?’

  Carl stared at Jim. He would not have been more surprised if Jim had told him that JFK was living in the basement of Grand Central Station.

  ‘The conference room,’ Carl said. ‘You were listening in?’

  ‘No, we weren’t. But could you answer the question, please?’

  He thought of telling Jim to go to hell, that the conversation he had had with Caz was private. But then there was that look in Jim’s eyes. Something bigger was going on, something that he wanted to know more about.

  ‘Yes, Caz did. A friend of his in Boston supposedly had some dramatic information that would change things. Something that would stop the killing.’

  Jim said, ‘Did you ever find out what he had?’

  ‘No, he was murdered before I could do that.’

  Jim blew into his hands, rubbed them again. ‘Then Caz was right, the old fool...’ Jim made a funny little wave with his right hand. ‘You ever play the lottery, Carl?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ever play the lottery?’ Jim said.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, you should,’ Jim said, gently grasping his arm and leading him to the door on the other side of the roof. ‘My advisers, they said I shouldn’t bring you here. They said I shouldn’t talk to you. And I said, well, I said I had a feeling about you, that you were a straight shooter, that you knew some important stuff and that you would help us. I was glad I was right. And you should be, too.’

  Carl felt something itchy between his shoulder blades, knowing a hidden sniper was keeping an eye on him, a sniper from PS 19. ‘That little wave of your hand. From a Kipling poem, right? About the tribal leader who meets with a British officer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. And if it hadn’t gone well back there with our little talk ...’

  ‘There would have been no wave, and I’d be dead.’

  ‘Yep. No offense, all right?’ Jim asked, as he reached for the door handle.

  The night air felt cold, quite cold. ‘No offense,’ Carl said.

  The door opened up and he had to cover his eyes to shield them from the glare.

  ~ * ~

  Jim allowed him a moment to take it all in. The large room was smelly and noisy, and, as elsewhere, was lit with a mix of flickering electrical bulbs and candles. To the left were a row of shortwave radio receivers, with young men and women sitting at them, wearing earphones and studious expressions, either jotting down information on notepads or sending out signals with Morse code keypads. To the right were rows and rows of cages, with pigeons cooing and preening and fluttering about. At the far end of the room he could see other young men and women, gently working with the pigeons, placing little capsules on their feet and setting them free out a large window.

  In the center of this space was a tiny cluster of desks and typewriters, and a couple of well-armed men, staring at him with a not very friendly look.

  Jim cleared his throat. ‘Welcome to Radio Free Manhattan, Carl.’

  ‘This... this is all for PS 19?’

  Jim laughed and went over to a small table with a couple of mismatched chairs. A man dressed in overalls placed two cups of tea on the stained tabletop, and Carl and Jim sat down.

  ‘No, not really, Carl,’ Jim said, taking a cautious sip from the tea. ‘You see, back there, when the three of us were talking—us two and your Brit reporter friend—well, I didn’t feel like giving up too much. But when you gave me that info about the British paratroopers and the supplies that have been prepared for our benefit, and when you came back later and said you wanted to talk to Caz . . . well, I gambled that I could take you a little further.’

  ‘Nice gamble,’ Carl said sharply. ‘Gambling with my life.’

  Jim shot back, ‘And I’m gambling with a hell of a lot more lives. Tens of thousands here, and other places. You see, PS 19 is just one group here in Manhattan, Carl. There are others. And we work together, to keep everyone fed and healthy and out of the Army’s way. Every two years, we select a leader.’

  ‘And you’re that leader. The mayor, is that it? Are you the mayor of New York City?’

  He grinned. ‘Why the hell not? Titles don’t mean much. Call me the chairman of the Manhattan councils if that makes you feel better. But there’s a lot more going on than just running this city.’

  Carl looked over at the radios, the homing pigeons, the communications setup. Pretty elaborate for a small island like this. Too elaborate, in fact. He turned and looked back at Jim. ‘You’re not alone, are you?’

  Jim looked steadily back at him. ‘Go on.’

  Carl felt like he was on the edge of something.

  ‘There must be other communities out there, just like in Manhattan,’ Carl said, the words coming to him quickly. ‘Army’s got a half dozen Restricted Zones set up around the country. Around San Diego. South Florida. Omaha. Around destroyed Air Force bases like Maxwell in Alabama and Moody in Georgia. There’re people there as well, right? Just like here, the dissidents and the hunted, the deserters and draft dodgers, everyone and anyone who’s on the run from martial law, they end up inside an RZ, in hiding. And you’re m contact with them.’

 
; Jim glanced around the room. ‘We have been, for years. Trading information, news, tips on how to survive without getting in the way of the Army.’ He turned and looked directly at Carl, the scarred face serious. ‘We communicate through couriers, homing pigeons, brief coded messages on the radio. We have quite a little network of free communities set up, a network we’re proud of. In some ways, we see ourselves as the legitimate government of the people of the United States, Carl, because we have real, free, and open elections. More free than the ones on the outside. But it’s been ten years, ten long years, and we’re getting tired. You can only survive so long and so much on salvaging ten-year-old leftovers.’