by Jack Womack
"Let's walk east," I said, holding her close to prevent her being swept away by the crowd. "Then down through Murray Hill. It'll be the easiest, I think."
To gain most productive use of space, most stores along 34th displayed their wares alfresco, continuing their aisles-shielded from the weather by awnings once bright-hued, now sootsmeared-several feet out onto the sidewalk, leaving off only where the peddlers set, crowding the curbs four deep. Additional Army studies showed that Thirty-fourth Street was the only place in Manhattan where, on average, street traffic outpaced sidewalk traffic. Slowly, carefully, we began elbowing and kneeing our way through those prepped to barter or haggle or rob. This sort of mob troubled me most of all; in moving, one was sure to somehow offend, and such insults were not passed over here.
"O'Malley," I heard someone shout.
"You hear that?" Avalon said, pushing by a woman dragging along a baby carriage; it was loaded with wilted produce.
"Keep walking," I said.
"I'm trying," she said.
"O'Malley. "
I steered Avalon off the curb, attempting to get us across the street so that we might make our way down a block or so where the crowds would thin. A cockfight was being held just off the median between Broadway and Seventh; a ring stood round to bet on the outcome, to see which bird would move toward greater victories and which would provide soup for twelve.
"O'Malley!"
Someone was getting closer, coming up behind us, and I preferred to avoid. Avalon and I came to the unbroken rows of cars in the street and began climbing over, stepping onto bumpers, crawling over hoods where we had to, ducking back as cyclists sped between the cars, whistles ablow. I lifted her over the spikes at the 1 A lane and then leapt over myself. A halftrack rumbled toward us as we cleared the opposite line of spikes. Agonized cries arose over the hubbub. We looked away as two young women and an old man were pressed flat; the vehicle rolled on, leaving its red carpet behind.
"O'Malley!" the voice repeated, "Stop!"
We reached the south side of the street, pushed our way past the Herald Center, slid through the lines awaiting admittance into the ground floor's Army recruitment center. Ten stories up, along the building's cornice, on continuous run, passed the message SEE NEW YORK WHILE YOU CAN. I saw a Seventh Avenue bus steering downtown, pulling to the curb near us.
''Stop!!„
"What'll we do?" asked Avalon.
The bus stopped; passengers tumbled out as new ones pushed in, leapt on, clambered topside.
"Get on," I said, shoving her forward. "We'll outdistance and get off. Breakaway then. Hurry."
Avalon and I were the last two to force ourselves inside before the door shut. We were held tight between passengers on the higher entrance steps and the door, our arms squashed against our sides, our legs pinned to where we stood, our bodies molded against one another as if forming a vacuum seal. Had we been able to breathe it would have been quite arousing to be so near her. Something clawed at my back; turning my head, I could see a man running alongside the bus. His arm was caught in the door but he obviously wanted to keep his place; he jumped nimbly over potholes, sprang high to avoid other vehicles. The bus stopped suddenly and he was crushed between two postal vans. The bus crawled a few feet further, pulling to within six feet of the curb; the doors opened.
"O'Malley," Avalon wheezed, "Get out! This is fuckin' awful-"
"Too late-"
Dozens of people packed onto the bus; I felt my feet leave the floor as we were rammed along. The driver seemed unconcerned with taking fares, stared idly ahead, chewing on a toothpick. We found ourselves within the front quarter of the bus, held so tightly as if we'd been dropped into cement. By removing seats from buses the city had been able to provide surplus room for additional passengers.
"Stept'rrr'd'gm'pl'z," the amplified voice of the driver crackled: the quality of sound coming over the speaker suggested someone calling for help, while sinking in a fen, welded within an oil drum.
"Fuck-" Avalon said; we were separated during the last onslaught. "I'm suffocating-"
"Hold on," I gasped. Someone prodded my side with an umbrella; there was still no way I could raise my arms. I wasn't sure how far we'd gone; so many passengers hung on the outside that it was impossible to see past them. The bus lurched again and stopped. Another shipment jammed inward.
"O'Malley," Avalon screamed, "Help me!"
Only her head was visible; she drifted slowly away from me as if toward a whirlpool. In the center of the bus the crowd became more liquid; I leaned forward, certain that I wouldn't fall. It was almost possible to swim across.
"Help!!" Avalon reached out her hand; with enormous effort I threw myself forward, seizing it.
"When I stop," I panted, seeing that she was level with the side door, "Dig out. Push. Shove. Just get out."
"Yeah," she said.
The bus stopped; a hiss suggested that the unseen door to our left was opening.
"Now!"
One of my feet brushed the floor; I used it to propel myself forward. Avalon was out; a heavy man blocked my exit as he attempted to sneak in.
"Move," I shouted as the doors began to close.
"Fuck you," he shouted back. I knew this would go nowhere; with my free hand I reached up, digging my knuckles into his eyes. His great weight wedged the doors apart; as he fell back I plunged out with him, into the street. The bus pulled away, blowing vast black diesel clouds over us.
"Shamey," Avalon said, rushing over to help me, "are you all right?"
My suit was torn, beneath my long coat. One of my shoes hung halfway off my foot. Avalon's face was scratched, and her boots were scarred and scuffed. Her jeans were damp with fresh stains, and her sweater was yanked up over her breasts; as she began rolling it down, she looked at me oddly, and screamed.
"You're hurt."
"No, I'm not," I said, feeling my face, attempting to discover what had happened, wondering why I hadn't begun feeling the pain. "Am I?"
"Somebody bit your ear off."
Raising my hand to the side of my head, I discovered a sorrowful absence. "It's gone," I said. "My earring."
"What about your ear?" she asked. "It's not bleeding yet."
"It won't bleed," I said. "They're fake. I can get another ear-"
"I'll get you new earrings. Come on."
"Enid gave them to me-"
"Where are we, anyway?"
"Seventh and Twenty-sixth. Just outside Chelsea. Come on. "
With our Drydencards we had no difficulty entering the Chelsea Secondary Zone, our bedraggled look notwithstanding. Chelsea, boozhie-crammed, was a dreadful area awash with those lured to Manhattan by organizations such as Dryco, all hypnotized by the promise that for a few well-suffered years here, one's driven path to glory in other, more settled regions of the country might be made all the more sunwashed-so long as the visit was survived, certainly. To supply the whims of the neighborhood residents, innumerable booties filled Seventh Avenue's storefronts, each good for about three months' existence-until the fad died or the rent raised. We passed restaurants providing naught but confections of beche-de-mer and seaweed; stores selling nothing but one particular item: lamps or signs, shirts or knives. At Sixteenth, just before the barricade separating Chelsea from the Village Control Zone, was a large antique shop whose sign proclaimed it as the largest vendor of Nasty Nineties furniture in New York.
We walked the length of Fourteenth Street east, crossing through the barricade at Broadway into the East Village Secondary Zone. We were in that but shortly; at Third, we reached the wall surrounding Loisaida and went in.
"This is what it's like on this side?" Avalon asked. She seemed nervous, though it was difficult to read her features as dusk drew deeper.
Ambient graffiti was etched into the side of an abandoned building at Tenth Street: GODNESS LIVES-DO YOU? We continued along; many people were having dinner at that time of evening, and so the streets were not so crowded as they often wer
e. After so long we came to my building. The unlit marquee showed the weekend features as being Children of Paradise and Jules and Jim. During our walk down and over I'd kept sharp eyes apprised; no one seemed to have followed us, whether on foot or in car. The gates across Belsen's door were unshuttered; we went in.
"Lester?" I shouted; there was no one in the foyer of the club, and the lights were down within. Through the tobacco smoke I distinguished several vague forms near the bar.
"Ola," Ruben said, emerging from the haze. His shirt was off; he looked as if he'd been cleaning something, judging from the dirt smudging his shoulders and chest.
"Enid or Margot about?" I asked.
"On the other side still," he said.
Avalon stared as Ruben lifted one foot to his mouth, extracting his cigarette so that he could speak with greater ease; he tapped its ashes away against the side of the door.
"Back this eve?"
He shook his head. "Spilling charms yon and hith. At play with Brook's babble. Tu corazon?"
"Mi corazon," I said, holding Avalon tightly, as if fearful she might try to dash away. "We'll raise and close. If lozels prowl near-"
He nodded. We walked to the stairway and went up, picking our way over those encamped in the hall. I unlocked the door and we went inside. Avalon stood motionless in the center of the room., as if overwhelmed.
"You live here?" she asked.
"You get used to it."
the sofa. " This thing got any bugs in it?" she asked, pointing toward
"None that bite," I said. She frowned, but sat.
"Got anything to drink, Shameless?"
"Vodka. Pepsi. Want a glass?"
"Vodka. And a glass if it doesn't look like the rest of the place. "
"Here," I said, recovering a bottle from Enid's stock. She took it from me and gulped a long one. "Don't worry," I said, "we'll be safe here until we figure out what to do."
"We must be on the takeout list now, on any score," she said.
"Join the crowd."
"What's going to happen to us, Shamey?"
"Let's just take it as it comes," I said, for the moment unwilling to even try to think of something.
"Is everyone down here like that guy-" she began to say; she suddenly jumped, as if she'd been pricked. "Somebody's here."
"Where?" I whispered, looking around.
"Listen. I heard them say something."
I listened. The only sound I heard was Door ajar. Please shut.
"That's the refrigerator."
"Oh," she asked, relaxing, taking another guzz. "Are there a lot of those freaks down here?"
"There're a lot of people like that down here," I said.
"I heard your sister's like that," she said. "Is she?"
"Enid wasn't a born Ambient," I explained. "She chose to be one. She's not exactly like them."
"Looks more normal?"
"In a sense."
"She chose to be one of them?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Why are they called Ambients?"
"Because they're forever all around." That was how Enid put it.
"Who came up with that name?"
"They did."
She shuddered. Her eyes drew quietly shut as she sat upon the sofa.
"Tired?" I asked. "Stupid question."
"Can I use your shower?"
"Sure." We had a pump and tank in the basement; bought a week's supply at a time. Even if water had been still provided by the city to our zone, there were no pipes other than the old main sewer lines through which it might be run, and there were none of these near our building. "Try not to use too much water."
"I won't," she said. "Where's the bathroom?"
"In there. Be careful if you sit down."
"Why?"
"Rats crawl up through the pipes sometimes."
"You tried poison?"
"Things aren't that bad yet," I laughed; so did she. "There might be a towel in there."
"Might be?"
"I usually drip-dry. Enid keeps a pile of dirt to roll around in." She looked as if she believed me.
"Be out shortly," she said.
She closed the door behind her and started running out the water; she flushed the toilet twice. I supposed I could catch rain water in tubs and filter the larger impurities. I went into the bedroom and took a few minutes to nail a blanket over the crater in the ceiling. Climbing down, I looked over the stacks of old books that Enid had gathered over the years. She, like most Ambients, read anything they could find. Visible titles included Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine, Bolitho's Camera Obscura, Human Behaviour in the Concentration Camp, Nash's Unfortunate Traveller, Perverse Crimes in History, Fort's Lo!, and The Greening of America. I returned to the front room. Sitting down, I switched on the news.
"-burned and raped before being-"
I watched for a time. The president and First Lady left for Camp David for their monthly vacation, having sent condolences to the security adviser's widow. A witch was burned in Ohio. In Japan a defense plant leaked cumulonimbus clouds of azure gas; forty thousand died. The anchor raised her eyebrows, as if she was in on the joke.
"Coming up next," she said, "Cattle mutilators-friend or foe?"
There was a commercial for Russian fur jackets; first you saw the furry little animals and then you eyed the peelings. Then came a campaign spot: a long white beach, a calm sea, the president and his dog, Freedom Fighter, jogging along the sand; a folksinger sang of the joys of American mornings. It wasn't the president, of course, nor his dog; both were actors. The president, when outside, was always surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents.
Lastly a different spot came on, a public service message. The first shot was of a little boy shooting up; his finger quivered as the rush hit. There followed a scene of a crone thrashing a toddler with a long stick; blood flowed from his nose and ears. Then there was footage of a middle-aged man raping an eight-year-old girl; she screamed in pain. Fade to black, and the message came up:
KIDS.
Black, medium hold, and then:
KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF 'EM.
A repeated buzzing and bumping rang out downstairs; it sounded as if they were cutting off their limbs with clippers. Dire screams snagged my attention. I got up and looked out the window to estimate the turnout; the crowd was usually large on Saturday nights. Dozens of Ambients queued outside. The evening fog was light. A dark car was parked across the street. The shadows within were lit by the dash's pale purple illumination. I was fairly sure that the auto was a Redstar. I moved quickly to another window, turning off the TVC on the way; from my new vantage point I saw that the plates were IA. It was past eight; at this hour one began to ready the cudgel even without such prompting.
"Avalon?" I asked, speaking through the door, over the roar of the water.
"Yeah?"
"I think we're under watch."
"There's something out there?" She shut off the water.
"Yeah. I'm going to turn out the lights."
"Aren't the drapes closed?"
"They are now," I said, pulling the newspapers across; it might make them more suspicious to see the apartment darken, I thought, reconsidering.
"Why haven't they come up here yet if they're after us?"
"They're waiting," I said. "Maybe."
"Waiting for what?"
"It's terror,"I said. "They're trying to scare us, I think."
"Sounds like they're doing a good job. If they were after us, wouldn't they be up here already?"
"They wouldn't get far at night down here and they know it."
"Crossing the street?"
"They'll wait until morning," I said.
"Who do they sacrifice downstairs?" she asked; with the water not running it was easy to hear the ruck in the hough.
"Volunteers." I looked out the window again, turning back a corner of the paper. They were just sitting there.
"You ever talk to your sister about me?"
&nbs
p; 1 Yes."
"What's she think of me?"
"She forms hasty judgments." Waiting till we bed and bideaway, perhaps. Perhaps not.
"She's older than you?"
"Four years."
"What does she look like, anyway?"
"She has style," I said, "but she's taken. Has a girlfriend."
"What's her girlfriend like?"
"Precocious."
Avalon opened the bathroom door, stepping out; she was naked. She stood in the doorway for a moment, outlined against the light, her body steaming as if fresh baked.
"When I'm wet I can't get my jeans on," she said, walking forward. "Not that you've never seen everything I've got. Not that you weren't going to see. You mind?"
"Uh-uh," I said, staring at her.
"They still out there?" she asked, leaning forward, peering out from beneath the newspaper.
"Of course."
She raised up and came over to me, twisting her arms around my waist. "What'll happen to us, Shamey?"
Her skin comforted my hands as I patted her. She was soft as fog, and I feared that, somehow, she'd disappear as soon, while I wasn't looking.
"Something."
"You think they're alive or dead?"
"No idea. Whichever way it went, I think somebody wants to talk to us about it."
"You think we'll be all right?"
"Maybe. "
"Shameless," she said, holding me more tightly, "you think about me when I'm not around?"
"Always."
"You wanta sleep with me tonight?"
"Yes."
"Since my eyes first vizzed. "
"You've wanted to a long time, haven't you?"
"You talk funny sometimes," she said. "Like you did in the bar downstairs. I always wanted to sleep with you, too. You just weren't in the job description. "
