Parker stood at the entrance to Kingdom City Municipal Park, sunlight warm on his face. This was only his third visit since he and his dad left Manhattan for Kingdom City.
Three years ago.
After The Attack.
After he was buried alive.
After George Washington Elementary was blown to bits, his mom and her class of twenty-seven along with it.
His first visit to the park was a Biology class field trip to study the post-attack ecology of flora and fauna. The second visit was a few months later, with Bubba, after Brent Spade passed a note to Bubba during trigonometry, saying they weren’t men enough to leave the safety of the towers. He and Bubba waited until midnight, snuck past Mrs. Black snoring on the sofa, tiptoed out of Bubba’s apartment, rode one of the rapid express elevators one hundred stories to the street, and made their way to the park. They followed the bike path, camouflaged by the shadows of moon-dappled leaves. They walked softly, quietly. When they spoke, they whispered.
Two soldiers burst from the trees, automatic rifles locked and loaded, aimed and ready.
“Merde!” one soldier cursed. They lowered their muzzles; the last thing they needed was to have their patrol hampered by accidentally gunning down a couple local teenagers they were there to protect.
The soldiers had patches sewn onto the shoulders of their uniforms, visible in the bright moonlight, a tiger wearing a tall white chef’s hat, wooden spoon in its paw, stirring a black cauldron of steaming soup. Leave it to the French to equate the world’s greatest air force with fine cuisine. Below the caldron was orange writing: Laissez-faire . . . ou la mort. It was the insignia of Super-Tigre pilots. These two must’ve been taking their turn on foot patrol. Parker recognized the insignia from the uniforms of French soldiers he’d seen at The Cloud Deck restaurant. In between showing patrons to their tables, and overseeing every other facet of managing the enormous rooftop restaurant, Sandy had offered a translation: Live and let live . . . or die. It was France’s motto. As the world’s only remaining superpower, the motto seemed to be working.
“Allez-y!” said the soldier. “Go!” He waved his hand. Parker and Bubba ran for home, eager to share with Sunny their tale of near-death at the hands of elite French pilots.
That was last November. Nine months ago.
Now, three years after The Attack, life was surreal. There were no celebrations of the anniversary of The Attack. It seemed people preferred to observe the infamous day each in his or her own way. Bubba said it was because America had gotten her butt kicked and hadn’t recovered, that she was still looking for payback, for revenge, and that it was best if everyone kept their mouths shut for now and continued working to defeat the enemy. The road ahead was a long one. There would be time for celebration later.
Parker followed the paved path through a grove of tall trees, the same path he and Bubba had walked the night they’d nearly been shot. He wondered again if he were doing the right thing. Maybe he should’ve simply gone to Canary Downs. But he needed to sleep. He didn’t want his dad coming home from the war only to find him sallow-faced, with heavy bags under tired eyes.
A park seemed a safe place to sleep. Warm sun on his face. Open space all around. People strolling and laughing. Dogs chasing balls. Joggers. Bicyclists. An ice cream vendor handing swirled cones to children. Teenagers lying on the cool grass, falling in love. Summer in the city.
At least, this was how he’d always imagined a park should be. Canary Downs was this way, man-made and climate-controlled as it was, up on the 200th floor of Sky City South. Not to mention being full of people who might recognize him.
So here he was instead, at the city park, the real park, where anything might happen.
Lush, green leaves filled the tree tops, but three years after The Attack the trunks were still burned and black. The path led to a wide, treeless clearing. There were no people strolling, no dogs playing, no lovers kissing on the lawn. In fact, the grass was knee-high. It waved in the breeze, swishing from dark green to light green and back again. It seemed there was no money to keep it mown. Bicyclists raced through the park, couriers wearing satchels across their bodies, the right leg of their pants rolled up, away from the greasy, grinding teeth of the sprockets. They pedaled hard through the network of trails, shortcuts from one side of town to the other.
A man wearing a grimy green military-issue parka waded through some low bushes. His eyes locked on something and he stooped, then stood upright, holding a cigarette butt. Pink lipstick greased the tip of the bright white paper. The shelters paid a dollar an ounce for the butts, recycling the precious paper in an attempt to offset the rising costs of keeping the shelters open. Three gold chevrons adorned the shoulders of the man’s parka. The chevrons meant he was an enlisted man, a sergeant. Sergeants were the linchpins of the armed services, the link between the officers giving the orders and the enlisted men and women tasked with carrying out those orders. The vet must have listened well and worked hard to be promoted in rank to sergeant and put in charge of the lives of others. He carefully placed the butt into the recesses of his coat pocket. Parker wondered what it was like to be in charge of other people’s lives. To give orders, knowing your words could get other people killed. What had happened to the vet? How had he come to be scavenging for cigarette butts in the bushes?
A boy in a blue t-shirt pushed a small cart through a sea of noisy, bobbing pigeons. On the cart sat two square green bags, the same kind the pizza delivery guy used when Bubba’s mom Regina ordered pizza on the weekend or when she didn’t feel like cooking. Parker wondered who the pizzas were for and why the boy wasn’t in school. Then he remembered: it was still summertime and school wouldn’t resume until fall. He felt a pang of guilt seeing the boy working. None of the kids from Southie had jobs, himself included. As bad as things were, somebody always had it worse.
A group of people moved into the middle of the clearing. They began setting up a picnic. There were about twenty people, all different in appearance and ethnicity. Three men and four women unpacked sandwiches, apples, and oranges from old milk crates. Another handful of men and women spread blankets over the tall grass, assisted by two little girls with curly blond hair who jumped and leaped on the blanket, laughing, mashing down the cool grass beneath it. Nearby, two boys with black hair and narrow eyes took turns tossing a boomerang.
The people were probably from Unity Up! The kids were most likely warphans, a bunch of dumpties, so named because they’d been orphaned by the war and dumped on the government’s doorstep, then farmed out to private organizations after their lone parent had been killed in action, K.I.A., like Sunny’s big brother.
Parker searched for the Unity Greeters. He spotted two of them right away, over by the empty bike rack. Their new, grease-shined carbines were slung high and tight in front of their spotless body armor. These two never stopped looking over their shoulders. They must’ve been new to Unity, or perhaps it was the reality of being old enough, at long last, to be a part of the mercenary force, and old enough to carry an automatic weapon. Either way, they seemed nervous about being in the park. It was almost funny that heavily-armed and privately-funded mercenaries would be referred to as “Greeters.”
Two other Greeters stood apart on the other side of the picnic area. One, a tall, caramel-skinned man, perhaps in his early thirties, conversed with a fair young woman astride a red bicycle. She nodded her head and smiled while his mouth moved. Their voices were muted by the distance, and Parker was unable to hear their words. Either she was familiar with Unity and liked their work or perhaps she was excited by the prospect of discovering a group of people actually doing something, trying to protect the community and, hopefully, the nation. Though by her smile, Parker guessed it may have been the Greeter she liked.
The other Greeter, a female, stood several yards away. Dark glasses hid her eyes. Parker sensed she was watching him. Probably had been since she’d arrived. The long muscles in her forearms fluttered as she redoubled her grip on her own shin
y black carbine. Her body armor was marred by scratches and grime and a distinct hole near the shoulder. A bullet hole. Clearly she had seen some action. It was visible in her very demeanor, her calm acceptance of the reality that anything could happen at any time and it paid to be prepared for when it did.
Parker flopped down onto the grass. The Greeter talking with the woman on the bike handed his weapon to her. Her eyes widened when she felt how light it was. She smiled again. The woman wearing the dark glasses watched the man give away his weapon. She shook her head.
The other Unity people were still unpacking their lunch. If Parker pretended to be asleep before one of them offered him a sandwich, maybe they would leave him alone. His stomach grumbled. But if he took a sandwich, the sermon would begin, the invitation to take back the community, to stamp out the enemy within. They’d preached at his front door, so he knew the spiel. Compelling as some of their arguments were, and despite how much he wanted a sandwich, he had to get some sleep.
The ice cream vendor shouted. He waved his arms at the vet collecting cigarettes, shooing the vet away from his cart as he would a fly. The vet held up another cigarette butt, then shuffled off. The ice cream vendor seemed to be the only element matching Parker’s notion of what summer in the park ought to be.
Suddenly, a deep, bleating horn sounded, blasting the air, followed by the rising whine of a siren. The siren bounced off the tall buildings and echoed through the park.
Panic filled Parker’s mind. Memories of being buried alive washed over him. Three years ago could have been three days ago.
He surveyed the sky. Should he run for home?
The other people in the park seemed to be doing the same thing: sitting or standing in the tall grass, watching, listening, like wild animals waiting to see what was going to happen, if a threat were imminent. The woman in the dark glasses knelt behind a tree, weapon raised, ready. The vet lay in the bushes, curled into a tight ball with his arms over his head, rocking himself.
A shadow passed over Parker. He saw it. Felt it. High above, a black creature was flying. A hideous, reptilian thing with wide, leathery wings. And it was looking directly at him. Then the light of the sun shined from behind it, and Parker was blinded. He clamped his eyes shut. He waited until the pain in the back of his eyes lessened, then opened them again. A bird soared through the air, black wings spread wide. Wingtip feathers spread like fingers. Just a bird.
Flashing blue and red lights appeared through the trees. The source of the bleating horn and screaming siren appeared as a massive vehicle roared down the middle of the street, its armor painted blue and black with K.C.P.D. and BOMB SQUAD. It was bigger than any fire truck, with wide, hard tires taller than a man. Its siren screamed. The driver blasted the horn again, sending yellow cabs swerving out of the way. The enormous truck drove on and the siren faded. The Thursday midday sounds of the park gradually returned. The warm breeze soughed the tall grass. A hundred pigeons bobbed, pecked, and cooed.
Everyone waited.
Nothing happened.
The threat seemed to have passed.
The Unity Up! people went back to their picnic. The woman in the dark glasses leaned against the tree and lit a cigarette, her hand shaky as she struck a silver lighter. The vet lay in the bushes, still curled up, though he seemed calmer now.
Parker lay back in the grass. He took a deep breath and exhaled, smelled the cool, sweet grass tickling the back of his neck and tried to forget about the sight of the bomb squad. The long green blades of grass blocked out everything but blue sky. The sun was high. It would be an hour or two before it moved behind the south tower and sunset came and the park was locked down for the night. He could sleep for an hour or two. That would be enough to sustain him for his big day tomorrow. His dad wouldn’t know he hadn’t been sleeping, wouldn’t worry.
The bird whirled overhead in a circle. It folded its wings and dropped from the sky. It disappeared behind the tree tops, no doubt dropping in on an unsuspecting mouse or snake.
Parker closed his eyes. The sun glowed red through his eyelids. He took a deep breath and let it out. Warmth surrounded him. Sleep slipped in. The laughter of the children faded. A sensation of spinning flooded over him, as though he stood on a cliff at night, about to fall. The delirium of sleeplessness. Surely that was it.
The cool grass and moist earth vanished.
Darkness.
He was falling into a deep dark pit. The same pit that often appeared in his dreams, threatening to devour him alive.
He heard a sound.
A roaring below.
A sound he’d never heard before.
It grew louder, and then louder still, coming closer.
Panic took control.
From out of the darkness, a rose appeared. Red petals, long green stem, sharp green thorns. The rose evolved into a woman.
She looked into his eyes.
Parker looked into her eyes, into her.
The roaring ceased. He stopped falling. He opened his eyes. He was still in the park, supported by the earth. He sat up.
The Unity people ate their white bread sandwiches. The Greeters remained at their posts. The woman on the red bike had gone, as had the pizza delivery boy. The ice cream vendor busied himself behind his white cart.
Then Parker saw her. On the side of the cart: a woman’s face. It was her, the rose in the darkness. The image was an advertisement, a sales pitch for the Israeli singer and songwriter Transcendental Tal and her new album. Bubba and Sunny were huge fans.
Parker stared into Tal’s eyes. The same eyes he’d seen in the darkness. I stopped falling when I saw her. She saved me.
The ice cream vendor rang his bell. Parker jumped. He stood and ran toward the south tower, toward home. He already knew what he was going to do.
Chapter 4
Thou Shalt Not steal
A Shadow Passed Over the Son Page 4
