by Jon Ray
The distant light shook out of the void like an oncoming train. Marion saw it first, lying on his back, the steel beneath him rattling painfully against his skull.
“Look,” he said weakly, his voice swallowed by the elevator’s roar. The glow disappeared, for an instant, the pinprick of light lost among the bright stars flashing past his dazed eyes. But then his vision cleared, and his eyes locked onto the pale streak as it filled the sky above them.
“Allison, look!” he yelled, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. She was curled almost fetal, staring fixedly at the massive post as it drilled angrily through the center of the lift.
“What?”
Marion watched her mouth the word against the rush of wind. Her eyes flicked up, then returned to the whirring concrete, mesmerized by the thundering machinery. Marion struggled closer to her, straining against his own weight as the lift pitched and yawed beneath him.
“There! Up there!” He motioned frantically, pointing straight up. Allison finally managed to break her gaze and look skyward, weak light reflecting across her face. The approaching fissure spread through the darkness, a distant flame flickering ever brighter. The pinpoint widened into a ragged circle — a soft, reddish-brown spotlight floating overhead like a harvest moon. Allison reached out and gripped Marion’s hand, her nails digging painfully into his palm, fear flowing like electricity between their trembling hands.
The lift seemed to gain speed toward the end, the blinding light rushing down in a fiery crown. As they rose ever closer, Marion could clearly see the end of the elevator shaft above them, blue sky and shadowy clouds with shining tips drifting across the mouth of the well.
He had no idea what was going to happen — whether the lift was going to pull into a station, possibly crushing them against a concrete roof, or continue on to the next level, pushing them hundreds of meters into the air. Whichever it was, Marion felt helpless, and completely without options: there was no way to stop the lift from rising, and they almost certainly wouldn’t survive a jump from the roof to the rapidly receding ground. And so, half-paralyzed, he simply gripped Allison’s hand and held her panicked gaze, eyes blinking in the grainy light, hair whipped into knots by the violent wind.
In the end, it turned out, the laws of physics made the decision for them. The rush of wind powered them out of the elevator shaft as if freed from a vacuum, two ragdoll bodies lifted effortlessly into the air. There was a shuddering pop, like a champagne bottle being cracked open in a vault, and suddenly they were airborne, limbs and dizzy heads pinwheeling improbably through the air.
Allison tumbled gracefully away from the lift, with Marion mere meters behind, his eyes scanning the tangerine-streaked sky as it spun by, already envisioning their bodies smashing against the pavement below. Seeming to spiral in slow motion, Marion heard a distant, childish peal of laughter, followed by the distinct, trebly whine of a seagull, fading with the sunset.
The last thing either of them saw before they hit was the lift itself, shooting out of the fenced-in shaft like a flying saucer. A lone face peered from one of the narrow windows, wearing a shiny police cap and a baffled look of surprise, wide eyes disappearing upward as they fell.
They cleared the fence by centimeters, the steel mesh nearly scraping their skin as they flailed by, whistling toward the water. Allison landed pretty well, knifing feet-first into the sea with the minimal splash of an Olympic diver. Marion, on the other hand, landed flat and hard, his bruised ribs screaming, the solid sting of the water almost knocking him unconscious.
Allison pushed wildly to the surface, cool water slapping against her nose and tongue. As she kicked spastically to stay afloat, her one remaining shoe slipped lazily from her foot, drifting toward the shallow floor of the ocean.
“Marion!”
“I’m here,” Marion coughed, barely treading water. Allison found him a few meters away, latched onto the rough wire fence, swinging like a loose buoy. Above them, the lift rocketed into the dusky sky, a dark balloon floating into twilight.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not too bad,” Marion lied, spitting saltwater. Allison dogpaddled slowly toward him, the thick water dragging at her clothes and hair. The fiery sunset was all around them now, staining the ocean a deep mercury red.
“Where are we?” Marion squinted over the dark burgundy shadow of the sea, feeling for one hideous moment like they were swimming in blood.
“Coopers Beach.” Allison reached the fence and grabbed hold, swinging around to take in the familiar scene behind her. Marion stared innocently, his mouth bubbling below the surface of the water. “What, you’ve never been up here?”
“No,” he admitted, coming up for breath. “Have you?”
“Of course,” Allison answered, trying not to sound incredulous. “It’s the Hamptons. I mean… I thought everybody came here.”
“Well, not me.”
He said it without a hint of annoyance or anger, which made Allison feel even worse. Still, she couldn’t get over the fact that he had never made the trip. The city was just so… disgusting. And even if you couldn’t afford the mag-lev to Jefferson National Forest or the Ottawa Biopreserve, anyone could swing a weekend trip to the Hamptons, couldn’t they? It was normal, Allison thought. More than that, it was expected.
What kind of childhood did you have? Allison studied Marion’s tired face, wanting to know so much, unsure of how to go about asking. She eventually turned away, scanning the distant stripe of sand that marked the shore.
“Well, anyway, there are definitely easier ways to get here.”
Marion nodded, twisting his sore neck. “I’m sure.” He glanced back at the elevator shaft, really seeing it for the first time: a vast concrete well that rose out of the ocean like a volcano. How they had escaped from that thing alive, he would never know.
“Hey! Don’t hang on the fence!” Marion and Allison jerked their heads in tandem toward the beach, where a beefy lifeguard stood on his bone-white chair, waving a red megaphone.
“Come on,” Allison said, drifting away from the fence. “We’d better move.”
“I’m not sure I can swim.” Marion swung his legs around, his lower back spasming in protest. Allison reached out and put her arm around him, helping to keep him afloat.
“Hold on. It’s not so far.” She pulled him away from the fence as he kicked his legs ineffectually through the water.
“I’m sorry,” Marion said, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry I made you do this.”
Allison turned, spraying water. “Oh, don’t,” she said, shifting her grip on Marion’s chest. “It’s not your fault.”
“You don’t think?”
“No, I don’t.” She stopped for a moment, treading water. “Nobody makes me do anything, okay? I’m here because I made some decisions, is all. They might not have been the best decisions, but you know what? I’m glad I made them. I mean, look — we’re alive, and we’re out of that godforsaken prison, and, well, we’re in the Hamptons. So just stop apologizing and swim, okay?”
“Okay.” Marion smiled, feeling a bit stronger, his legs slowly uncramping, his aching muscles propelling him slowly alongside his irrepressible companion.
They drifted in silence, then, arms cutting through cool water, salty air warming their upturned faces. On the beach, the lifeguard rubbed his biceps, turned sideways in his wooden chair. The sand around him was sprinkled with blankets and towels, a handful of families staying just long enough to watch the sunset.
“Do you think anyone saw us?” Marion swiveled his neck to gaze back at the lift. “I mean, flying and everything.”
“Nah. There’d be more commotion, people pointing and stuff.”
The lifeguard blew his whistle again, admonishing some kid on the shoreline. “Hey! That’s not your toilet!”
They both touched bottom at the same time, splashing forward in a flurry of white bubbles. The stippled rubber felt smooth and spongy beneath their feet, a fine layer of sand swirling around their ankl
es, sharp grains working their way up each pant leg. Marion crawled up next to Allison, still submerged, his face flushed by the evening sun.
“We better move down the shore before we get out,” Marion said. “People might think it’s weird that we’re fully dressed.”
“Not that way,” Allison warned, glancing down the beach. “The Dune Church is over there — it’ll be mobbed.”
Marion looked back, surprised. “Wow. You really do know this place.”
“Yeah,” Allison replied, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I’ve been here a ton. With my mom, before she moved, then in a summer share with my friend Joanne.”
Marion shaded his eyes against the setting sun, watching it spread out along the horizon, a shimmering orange flame disappearing into the artificial sea. “Was it always this pretty?”
“Mm,” Allison murmured, steering away from a young couple splashing in the waves. “They made it that way. For the tourists.”
Marion glanced at the elevator post, framed against the glowing sky. “I guess they haven’t noticed we’re gone yet, huh?”
“I guess not.”
As if on cue, the post began to hum and shake, rattling inside its chain-link sleeve. Allison glanced up, catching the lift as it slipped out of the lowest cloudbank, sliding down the thick pole toward the ocean.
“Here it comes.”
Marion watched uneasily as the elevator descended, feeling the rubbery surface beneath him quivering with the weight of the lift. The calm surface of the ocean began to tremble and peak, slapping against the sides of the concrete shaft.
“They’re bringing the workers back,” he guessed. The underside of the lift looked like a flat boulder dropping into the sea.
“From the Garden? Aren’t they a little late?”
“I dunno,” Marion admitted, following the lift as it raced past them into the ground. The windows flashed once as it fell, and then it was gone, a deep rumble fading beneath their feet.
“Well, I’m not going to wait around to figure it out,” Allison declared, struggling out of the shallow water on all fours, her clothes swaying clammy and loose. Marion followed nervously, glancing up and down the beach to see if they were drawing any attention. Most of the tourists seemed to be gone, and he could see faint houselights winking on one by one across the dunes.
Allison rolled over on the beach, peeling a dripping sock from one aching ankle.
“So, what now?”
Marion squeezed water from his sopping shirt, kneeling on the wet sand. “I guess I don’t really know. How about your friend, with the summer thing?”
“Joanne?” Allison snorted sarcastically. “She hates this place.”
“I thought you said…”
“Uh-uh. That was years ago. Joanne is a city girl now, through and through. Anyway, this place is way too bourgeois for her taste.”
Marion nodded, watching Allison rub her right ankle. “Can you walk?”
“I can try.”
Marion helped her up, trying not to strain his ribs. At least they were still alive, he thought, and that was something. Not much, really, but something.
“Should we head toward those lights?”
Allison frowned, looking toward the faint glow of the village, remembering the hand-cranked ice cream her mother used to buy her, the snooty tavern where Joanne had met her ex-fiancé.
“I don’t think so. Not like this.”
Marion glanced down, suddenly realizing just how pathetic they looked. The lift had left broad, greasy streaks across their ill-fitting clothes, shredding one of Allison’s cuffs into a tangled mess of denim. To make matters worse, the salt water had plastered the dirty cloth flat against their skin and whipped their hair into spiky fright wigs.
“Okay then. The other way.” He helped Allison hop in a wide circle, aiming toward the dark end of the beach. They began to stagger slowly forward, looking like a pair of drinking buddies after a very long night. Down the shore, a fat man in a red Speedo strolled toward them, close to the water, his white stomach overhanging his tight suit. Just behind, closer to the cyclone fence guarding the dunes, a trio of young boys rolled across the still-warm beach, oiled bodies matted with sand as they tussled and shouted.
“Evening,” the fat man called out, waving cheerfully. Marion nodded, looked away, and then back. The man smiled, the way fat men do, pulling his multiple chins tight against his round neck. Marion felt a bright burning in the center of his stomach, a small coil of excitement and shock. Although he had never been inside a church, and didn’t believe in much of anything save survival, suddenly Marion found himself thinking that maybe there was a god, after all — a laughing, mischievous and playful god, a jester with the world spinning between his outstretched hands.
“Well, look at you!” The minister chuckled like a little boy, his fingers scratching pleasantly across his wide belly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Marion raised his hand in senseless greeting, and then nearly collapsed.
“Complete mayhem,” the minister — whose name turned out to be Bernard Moody — confirmed, folding his ample belly into a frayed bathrobe. “They’re working to contain it below 14th, but, last I heard, riot squads were heading to Times Square and East Harlem, as well.”
Marion and Allison were stretched out on a white divan, their faces steaming and pink, their bodies relaxed by hot showers and dry clothing.
“What about the prison?” Allison asked, tucking the corners of her pale blue sundress between her knees. She felt uncomfortable, as if she were wearing a costume. The dress fit well enough, but it seemed so nice. Especially for a supposed cast-off.
“It’s hard to say. There’s been a lockdown of the entire level — no news beyond that. Word is they’re shuttling in the National Guard.”
“Wow,” Allison said, in complete disbelief. “It’s that bad?”
Bernard nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so.”
They sat still for a moment, looking nervously at each other. Marion fiddled with his loose collar, wishing that his pants didn’t sag so much around the hips. These clothes had obviously belonged to someone a good deal larger than he. Someone strong, heavyset, and rich as hell.
“Well, look,” Allison said, breaking the silence, “Mister…”
“Moody. But please — call me Bernard.”
“Bernard. We really appreciate the clothes, and the showers and rest and everything.”
“Oh, it was the least I could do,” he insisted.
“But, really, we should probably get going.” She glanced over at Marion, who nodded quickly in assent. “I mean, you don’t really know us, but…”
“Oh,” Bernard replied mildly, “I think I do.”
“No you really don’t.” Allison pushed on, needing to hear herself say it. “I know this is going to sound weird, but we’re... well, we’re sort of fugitives. I mean, we broke out of jail.”
“Yes, well, I gathered as much,” Bernard said, smiling at them both in turn. “I couldn’t imagine that you’d choose to go swimming fully clothed, if you had your druthers. But you don’t exactly strike me as hardened criminals, either, so I guess I’m willing to take my chances.”
“But…” Allison began to protest, but was silenced by Bernard’s throaty chuckle.
“Look,” he said, easing himself into a leather recliner. “I am certainly not one to proselytize, but I cannot help but feel that our meeting here seems beyond mere chance. And I would imagine that my young friend here might just agree.”
Allison looked from Bernard to Marion, trying to figure out what the roly-poly minister was getting at.
“I do believe that some things are simply meant to be,” Bernard continued, easing his chair back and wiggling his toes as the recliner’s footrest swung up. “And this is one of them. So you two should stop worrying and at least stay the night — have some food, a good rest, let your wounds heal a bit. We can figure out your legal situation tomorrow, once everything has calmed down a bit
.”
Allison raised her eyebrows at Marion, not really sure how to answer. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his baggy shirt, too tired to argue.
“Well, okay,” Marion finally said, looking around the enormous living room. “But we can’t stay too long.”
Bernard nodded, sinking happily back into his chair. “Well then, enjoy it while you can.”
The house, it turned out, belonged to Bernard’s brother Ian, who worked in the financial industry, or maybe ran a software company.
“I really can’t remember which,” Bernard admitted, rummaging around inside the brushed-aluminum refrigerator. “Something that generates vast sums of money, anyway. That’s his style.”
“I can tell,” Allison said, hobbling along the short hallway toward the den. Marion was there, leaning against the pool table, rolling balls lazily across the purple felt.
“You must come here a lot,” he called out.
“Hmm?” Bernard stepped into the room, a celery stick jutting from his mouth like a cigar.
“I said you must visit all the time.”
“Actually, this is only the third time I’ve been here.” He paused, doing a quick mental calculation. “Not counting the wedding, that is.”
“Really?”
“Really. I probably would have skipped the wedding, as well, except I was officiating.”
Allison stared, unable to tell if he was joking or not. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, you know — sibling rivalry, professional jealousy.” He grinned, giving a broad wink. “I was absolutely convinced that I could make my fortune in the seminary.”
Marion glanced around, studying the paintings set along the paneled wall. They were hung inside clear protective vaults, the bright colors muted behind thick panes of lucite.
“Besides,” Bernard continued, “I’ve never really understood the allure of this place. Why they spent so much time and trouble, I’ll never know. If you ask me, the entire level just feels …” he paused, wrinkling his nose. “Insincere.”
“What are you going to tell him?” Marion asked, sinking the eight ball in a side pocket. “About us, I mean.”
“Ian?” Bernard shrugged. “What’s to tell? You’re my friends. You fled the city, just as I did.”
“But what about our clothes? And, you know, our injuries and everything?”
“People don’t leave a city-wide riot in a limousine.” Bernard replied. “I’ll explain it to him, I promise.”
He turned to stare back toward the foyer, taking a thoughtful bite of celery. “Of course, the real problem is going to be Gwen.”
“You gave her my dress?”
Allison cringed, hearing the throaty, rasping voice a full two rooms away. She and Marion were playing darts, trying to ignore the squabble going on in the front room. Allison was winning handily, since every time Marion tried to throw hard he ended up yelping in pain.
“I want a handicap,” he whined, sticking another dart in the floorboard.
“Hush.” Allison inched closer to the open door, trying to hear the entire argument. “They don’t sound too happy.”
Marion watched warily, scratching the tightly wrapped layers of gauze beneath his shirt. He finally walked over and stuck his last dart in the bulls-eye, trying to ignore the increasingly agitated voices echoing from the foyer.
“Well then, where exactly did you meet them?”
Allison scuffed her feet, appearing more and more distressed. “God, what am I doing here?”
Marion stared at her, not sure if he should answer or not. He’d been alone so long, he realized, that he had absolutely no idea how to comfort anyone — least of all an attractive woman like Allison. “Well,” he finally managed, “they can’t be as bad as they sound.”
“I sure hope not,” she answered glumly. “They’d have to be reptiles.”
The voices outside the door quieted suddenly, fading into a single set of footsteps. As Marion scrambled to pull his darts out of the floor, Bernard stepped into the den.
“Okay,” he muttered, rubbing his shining forehead. “Everything is settled, then.” He looked nervously back at the hallway. “Well, almost. I’m afraid I had to tell them that you two were, ah…”
His confession was cut off by a sharp sneeze, followed by a whistling breath. “Well, god bless me,” Gwen said cheerfully as she slipped through the door. Ian followed immediately behind, striding purposefully across the hardwood floor, looking very much like he had someplace to go.
“Well, hello there!” Marion flinched, shying instinctively away from Ian’s outstretched hand. “Sorry you’ve had such a hard time. We’re glad you got out okay.” He pumped Marion’s hand like a spigot, his grip just tight enough to hurt. “I hope Brian’s clothes fit you all right.”
Marion blinked. “Brian?”
“My son. He’s in school now. Shanghai.”
Before Marion could react, Ian turned his tight jaw and eager stare toward Allison. “Ah,” he said, shifting his gaze to Bernard, “and this is…”
Bernard floundered, just for a second, searching for the right name. Allison quickly jumped in, grabbing Ian’s hand firmly between her own.
“Allison,” she answered brightly. “Allison Rayel.”
Marion watched them shake hands, realizing that this was the first time he’d actually heard Allison’s last name. He tried to catch her eye, wanting to mark the moment, but couldn’t quite manage it. Everybody was just too busy — a flurry of introductions, compliments and nervous chatter.VIG
Marion felt disoriented, stuck in this unpleasant frenzy of social activity. Gwen was fawning over him, asking if he’d like something to drink, but all he could do was mutely shake his head. She was tall and skeletal, with a short mass of white-blond hair pulled back — along with most of her skin, apparently — into a restrictive silver hairband. Her face was a mask of tanned flesh, stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones and hollow eyes. Marion couldn’t help but think that she resembled some sort of large, clicking beetle.
Ian was attempting to herd them back toward the kitchen, spreading his arms wide. Bernard maneuvered instinctively ahead of him, shielding Allison from the brunt of the attack.
“We weren’t really expecting guests,” Gwen apologized. “We would have had Carmen make you something special.”
“Oh Gwen, who needs Carmen?” Bernard said, “You know anything you make is fine.”
“For you, maybe.” She laughed loudly — a high, bitter sound that closely resembled her sneeze. Marion looked over at Allison, his eyes wide.
“Help,” she mouthed.
Dinner went reasonably well. They had a reheated stew and candied yams, left over from a Town Trustees fundraiser that Gwen had thrown the previous evening, along with some fresh rolls from the local bakery. Marion and Allison ate as discreetly as possible, trying to conceal just how ravenous they really were.
“Gwen made this stew herself,” Ian boasted, mashing his dinner into a dark paste. “In fact, we do a lot of our own cooking.”
“Some of our friends have full-time cooks, you know,” Gwen confided. “But we really don’t see the need.”
Ian nodded, scooping stew onto a steaming chunk of bread. “We try not to exploit our economic advantage,” he explained proudly. He shoveled the roll into his mouth, then followed it with two quick spoonfuls of stew. Marion watched him eat with silent fascination, wondering just how much his mouth could actually hold.
Gwen suddenly dropped her spoon, the heavy pewter clattering against china. “Oh, Ian, I nearly forgot!”
Ian swallowed heartily, and Marion swore he saw a lump slide toward his stomach, like a snake swallowing an egg. “Forgot what?”
“The thing!” Gwen was already halfway across the dining room, her heels leaving shallow dents in the carpet.
“What thing?” Ian was already loading up another roll, his mouth chewing air. Gwen reappeared, rolling the kitchen mediascreen in on its wooden cart.
�
��Knox’s thing — the Oval Office address.”
Ian flicked a bored look at his watch, his mouth too full to speak. Gwen fumbled with the remote, stabbing the screen in feverish anticipation.
“Oh damn. I hope we didn’t miss it.” She scooted closer, a look of intense concentration on her face.
Marion looked on, mildly interested. The only real mediascreens he ever saw were through store windows — not counting the thousands of ad screens and non-functioning government kiosks littering the city, of course. Eating dinner in this house, with this odd trio, was beginning to border on the surreal. Was this what it was like to have a family? Is this what normal people did?
The screen buzzed, emitting a faint chorus of cheers and shouting, sounding light years away. And then the picture faded in — an aerial view of City Hall, surrounded by angry bodies, a swarm of placards and raised fists looking distant and muddy beneath a heavy rain.
“Look at that,” Ian chuckled. “They’re trying to drown the bastards out.” He reached over and turned up the volume, squinting at the screen. Marion pulled his chair closer, trying not to appear overly eager. As the helicopter shot rolled on, he could just make out the Medical Center in the background, the wide marble steps completely buried beneath the angry crowd.
“Jesus Christ,” Ian muttered. “What the hell are they trying to accomplish?”
“Maybe they’re just fed up,” Bernard offered, leaning pensively back in his chair. Everyone turned toward his end of the table.
“Oh, come on, Bernie,” Ian said. “I mean, look, we’re all fed up...”
“Not like that, we’re not.” He gestured toward the mediascreen, which was now panning over a blurry close-up of the screaming crowd.
“You’re right, Bernard,” Ian replied dismissively. “Not everyone is out there acting like a Brightlander, whipped up into a useless, destructive frenzy. I stand corrected.”
“Well, of course, it’s easy enough to sit up here, in the lap of luxury, and summarily dismiss these people’s concerns...”
“Oh, can it,” Ian snapped. “Don’t try to use your social justice crap to excuse this, this… absolutely criminal behavior. And I’ll tell you something else, Bernie — you want to know what really ticks me off?”
Bernard smiled. “I can’t imagine.”
“That I have to live on top of all of this.” Ian scowled, glaring at the screen. “I swear to god, Bern, sometimes I wake up at night, and I can feel the city rumbling beneath me. I hear the prison cells banging closed, and hordes of people screaming at each other, and it’s all right under my feet. I’m telling you, it’s a fundamental flaw in the design.”
“Well, would you rather they be on top of you?”
“Well of course not,” Ian sputtered. “It’s not a matter of above and below, for Christ’s sake — the entire project was misbegotten from its very inception. I mean, now, take D.C. — there’s a proper city plan. Single level, plenty of natural light, all kinds of room to expand…”
“Wow. You’ve been to Washington?” Allison leaned in, genuinely curious.
“Been there? I helped float the bond issue for the Georgetown skylight — though that was probably before your time.” Ian swiveled toward Marion and Allison, obviously happy to find someone less combative to talk to. “Look, let me ask you two something. How many levels does this city have, all told?”
“Five, right? Or six, I guess, if you count the floor with the Biosystem and everything.”
“Close enough,” Ian answered, grinning mischievously. “Now, how do you think they keep this massive, overbuilt layer cake in place? Have you ever really wondered?”
“It’s, uh, all about displacement, right?” Marion glanced around the table, surprised to find everyone suddenly staring at him. “I mean, I know this guy who used to be a steelworker, and he always said that every high-rise they built couldn’t add any weight to the island — so they’d dig out the exact same weight from the foundation. You know, to compensate. Anyway, he claimed that the Build was done the same way — just on, you know, a much bigger scale.”
“Exactly right, Marion,” Ian replied. “They built this whole damn thing by digging way deep into the bedrock, in this giant circle stretching from Newark to New Rochelle, then funneling all of the crap out as the walls went up. But now we’re all trapped inside of this, this mountain.” He gestured impatiently, indicating the colossal weight pressing in all around them. “They went for height over stability — preservation over practicality. It was more important, I guess, to meticulously relocate the damn Hamptons then to think about what people actually require to retain peace of mind.”
“Whatever are you going on about?” Gwen finally pulled herself away from the mediascreen, staring venomously across the table at her husband. “I don’t see you complaining about this place when you get back from one of your nasty meetings in the city.”
“Now, honey, I’m not saying…”
“I know exactly what you’re saying,” Gwen sniffed. “You don’t think that any of this was worth saving — not the windmills, nor Montauk Lighthouse, nor Indian Wells. I’m sure you’d be just as happy living in one of those tacky indian casinos.”
“Look,” Ian said, obviously exasperated, “they can move those buildings, or mounds of dirt or whatever, anywhere they want. That’s not the point. All I’m trying to say is that the logistical decision to stack all of these sections on top of one another, like some sort of damn poorly designed industrial park…”
“Oh, will you please shut up?” Gwen glared across the table, a single blue vein pulsing across her forehead. “Just hush, all right? It’s almost time for the address.”
With that, they all turned uneasily toward the mediascreen, Ian huffing under his breath as the riot scene faded into a slow tracking shot of the White House lawn. Gwen wiggled in her seat like a little girl. “Oh good. We didn’t miss a thing.”
Ian shook his head in exasperation, pushing away from the table. “Gwen has this thing for President Knox,” he said, gathering and stacking dishes. “Why, I’ll never know. The man represents nothing, save the ultimate triumph of style over substance.”
“Oh, do be quiet. I don’t see you running for office.” The screen flickered, showing a heavy-lidded Washington correspondent reporting from the West Lawn. “Besides, he has a beautiful voice.”
“Yes,” Ian agreed, backing through the kitchen door. “And nothing to say.”
Gwen scowled as he left the room, her face ghost-white in front of the glowing screen. “Ian just can’t tolerate a good man.”
The room drifted into silence, then, everyone turning to stare at the mediascreen. After the reporter’s lengthy update on the riot situation in New York, the scene faded into superimposed presidential seal, and then the plush interior of the oval office itself, with the President sitting behind his massive oak desk, fingers steepled pensively against his chin.
“You think he’s in the White House?” Ian sneered, poking his head back through the kitchen door. “He’s in a studio, probably a hundred meters underground. They wouldn’t let him set foot in D.C. right now.”
Gwen ignored him, her eyes riveted to the screen. Marion found himself transfixed, as well — the relative novelty of the situation drawing him in. Allison, on the other hand, had a hard time figuring out why everyone seemed so enthralled. Even Joanne had a thing for President Knox, which had always struck Allison as absurd — the man’s positions were even more mealy-mouthed and focus-grouped than Mayor Matsumoto’s, whom Joanne despised. Yes, Knox was blandly handsome, in an aging sportscaster kind of way, but he certainly wasn’t heart-throb material. The only thing the guy really had going for him, as far as Allison could tell, was his voice; a deep, resonant baritone that was at once comforting and hypnotic, the very definition of sonorous.
Turning back to the mediascreen, Allison began to closely study this man, her president. She noticed that he had this way of looking both directly into and past the camera a
t the same time, as if he were carefully studying the wall behind you. As the address progressed, his voice became increasingly more deep and impassioned, the cadence and rhythm quickening almost imperceptibly as he pleaded for an end to the violence.
After a while, Allison found herself no longer listening to the actual speech — it started to sound like a muted symphony, where the tone and emotional grace notes mattered more than the words themselves. She finally tore her eyes away and looked around the room, finding everyone rapt and focused on the screen — even Ian. There was something about the man’s voice, she realized. Something ethereal — an ineffable quality that functioned like some sort of oratorical drug. The minute you heard it, it was as if you had known it all your life. Allison’s eyes drifted back to the screen, where President Knox was now in full close-up, his earnest voice underscoring the pain in his teary eyes.
What the hell was it? Allison followed the slow murmur of his words, hearing a voice so ingratiating — so oddly, inexplicably familiar — that it could have easily belonged to a long-lost relative. As she leaned closer, Allison began to detect a distant buzzing — a hidden, inexplicable tremor at the core of Knox’s basso profundo, a faint whine that tickled her ear like a lazy fly. But then, just as she began to zero in on the anomaly, the speech was over.
“Now tell me that man can’t give a speech,” Gwen declared, shaking her head in awe.
“But what did he say?” Ian demanded, crossing the room and slapping the screen into silence. Allison started, still staring at the dull black screen. “We are teetering on the edge of financial ruin, do you know that? The world market is in total free fall, we’re falling into a deflationary spiral, the nation is buried in debt, and what does the man say?”
“Oh, stop it, Ian. Why must you insist on ruining everything?”
“I just want to know,” Ian insisted, seeming truly mystified. “How can a man sound so good and say so little?”
“I believe,” Bernard said, cutting the argument short, “that I am going to bed.”
“Good idea,” Ian muttered. “I’m exhausted.”
Marion got up from the table, watching Gwen roll the mediascreen back into the kitchen. Ian came up behind him, clapping him painfully on the shoulder.
“I’ve set you guys up in Brian’s old room, upstairs.”
Marion tried to keep his face blank, holding himself upright against the glass table. “Um… what guys?”
Ian’s cool smile faltered. “Well, you and Allison, of course. I thought, since you shared that studio near Bernie’s shop…”
Bernard nodded his head vigorously, his chin doubling and trebling beneath the frantic motion. Marion smiled nervously.
“Oh!” he said, rubbing his brow. “I thought you meant me and Bernard.”
“Oh, no,” Ian laughed. “God no.”
Marion paused for a second, not sure exactly what to do. “Well,” he stammered, “I’m not sure…”
“Oh, Marion, stop yammering.” Allison got up from her seat, limping a few half-steps on her sore ankle. “Just get over here and help me upstairs, would you?”
“Uh, sure, of course.” Marion glanced at Bernard, who was beaming like a proud father. “Well then, I guess this is goodnight.”
“Goodnight, everyone,” Allison called out cheerfully, leaning against Marion’s arm as they climbed the stairs.
Ian watched them go, scratching his chin as they moved slowly up the stairs. “You know, Bernie, that’s one hell of a strange couple.”
Marion lay face-up on the double bed, his back rigid, medical tape constricting his thudding heart. “You know, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Allison grinned as she snapped a rubber band around her ponytail, pulling the strawberry twist of hair across one shoulder. “I think we’re old enough to handle this.”
“Okay,” Marion said, struggling to keep his voice as calm as possible. “But you’d better not snore.”
Allison flipped her hair back, shooting a spare rubber band at Marion’s face. “Oh, dry up.”
Marion watched her limp toward the bed, marveling at how comfortable she seemed. She was wearing an ankle-length nightdress, a gauzy blue thing that would have looked horrific on anybody else. Oh her, however, it was both demure and alluring — the sheer layers of fabric obscuring her curves, yet somehow allowing the pale, bone-white glow of her skin to filter through. Marion crawled deeper into the sheets, feeling underdressed in his borrowed T-shirt and boxer shorts.
“You know,” Allison said, pulling the covers away from the mattress, “I actually feel pretty good.”
She swung both legs up, tucking her bandaged ankle carefully under the blanket. Marion turned his head to watch her, the pillowcase pleasantly cool and starchy against his cheek.
“I’m glad.”
“Boy, this place…” Allison shook her head, laughing. “It makes me glad I live in the city.”
“Lived, you mean.” Marion said it without thinking, and then immediately wanted to take it back. What was he implying? That they were never going to return to New York? He opened his mouth to explain, but Allison beat him to it.
“Yeah,” she agreed, sounding incredibly matter-of-fact about it. “I guess that’s right.”
There was a long pause, then, both of them breathing in time.
“Well, I guess we could always stay here.”
“Ha.” Allison reached over, fumbling with the bedside lamp. “Don’t even joke about that.” She snapped the light off, rolling over onto her side. “I don’t trust this place.”
“Tell me about it.” Marion sighed, his eyes searching the darkness. “It’s too perfect.”
Allison snuggled into her pillow, draping her arm across Marion’s chest. He froze, eyes open, feeling her breath warm against his arm.
“Does that hurt?” Allison’s voice was already sleepy and calm. Marion swallowed once, hearing the dry click of his throat.
“No, not at all.”
Allison mumbled softly, settling her head against his shoulder. Marion closed his eyes, watching streaks of light play across his eyelids, wondering if he would ever get to sleep.
Unfortunately, their short, idyllic vacation ended abruptly the next morning.
Marion woke up late, his ribcage tender and throbbing beneath its tight casing. Allison’s side of the bed was empty, and he could hear the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
He dressed as quickly as he could, pulling his windbreaker over a borrowed T-shirt, finding a scuffed, surprisingly comfortable pair of sneakers in the small closet. He took the wide oak stairs two at a time, trying to imagine actually living in such a grand, spotless domicile. It was just so polished and untouched, with every picture bolted down and every surface gleaming — Marion couldn’t help but feel like an after-hours intruder locked in a museum.
“Well, look who’s up,” Ian called out, pausing at the base of the stairs. “You’re in luck — breakfast is just about served.”
Marion followed him into the bright kitchen, blinking against the glare. Allison was standing at the counter, wearing a knee-length, robin’s-egg blue cotton dress, her hair still tousled from sleep. She looked completely different in a dress, Marion thought — surprisingly girly, and somehow younger. Of course, the fact that she was wearing a pair of puffy slippers shaped like giant, pastel-colored tennis shoes might have had something to do with it.
“Hey there, lazy bear.” She smiled as she spooned coffee into a brown filter. “Glad you could make it.”
Marion yawned, waving his hand weakly. Behind Allison, he could see Bernard sitting at the kitchen table, already dressed in his dark suit and clerical collar, reading a physical edition of the Times. Marion was surprised that someone as supposedly tech-forward as Ian Moody would subscribe to the print edition — but he supposed that the ridiculous price, the rarity of wood-pulp paper, and the status-enhancing act of having someone deliver it to his front door made the ink
y fingers worthwhile.
“Hey, Bernard,” Marion said, pulling out a chair. “Are you going back down?”
Bernard glanced up from his newspaper, a pair of black, half-moon reading glasses sliding down his nose. “Well, I’m certainly going to try — although Lord only knows if the city shuttle is even operating right now. But I’m hoping to log a bit of time in the shop, if it hasn’t been looted. Tomorrow is Easter, after all.”
“Are things, you know, back under control down there?”
“Well, it still seems pretty touch-and-go,” Bernard admitted, dropping the newspaper back down on the table. “I doubt I’ll stay more than an hour or two.”
Ian grabbed the City section, folding it top to tail. “You shouldn’t go at all, if you ask me.”
“Well, I suppose that’s why I declined to ask you.”
“Oh, can’t you two stop arguing for an instant?” Gwen breezed in from the living room, her sharp heels clicking across the Spanish tile. “I swear, you two see each other maybe twice a year — I think you’d be able to act civil.”
“I am acting civil,” Ian grumbled, glaring over his paper. “I was merely pointing out…”
“Oh, these eggs look delicious!” Gwen exclaimed, ignoring her husband completely. “Thank you so much for cooking, Allison. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, no, please don’t worry about it,” Allison said. “You guys have done so much for us already, it’s the least I can do. Just go ahead and take a seat — I’m just waiting for the toast, then we can eat.”
“Oh, I’d love to. Unfortunately, I can’t stay for breakfast.” Gwen tugged at the soft lapels of her pink jacket, glancing toward the front entryway. “Seems there’s a bit of an emergency, and they’ve summoned the Trustees. Apparently there was a breech of Georgica Pond last night, and now the whole thing is just draining out into the ocean like crazy. They can’t figure out if it was an accident, or, you know,” she lowered her voice and glanced around the kitchen, as if it might be bugged, “an act of terrorism.”
“Probably one of those idiot lowlanders,” Ian snorted. “Built too close to the waterline, so they decided to dig the dam out early, keep their precious basement dry.” He smacked the table with his palm, working up a head of steam. “The real question is why we ever let the damn thing get this high to begin with. All they have to do is turn off the infernal rainstorms for a few weeks, and everything would be fine.”
“Now, darling,” Gwen clucked disapprovingly, “you know it’s more complicated than that. You can’t just mess around with nature whenever you feel like it.”
“Mess around with nature? For Christ’s sake, Gwen, it’s just a few stupid lines of code in a server somewhere. This whole ‘artificial biosystem’ thing is a total crock, and you know it. It’s just one more shortsighted cost-cutting disaster — the government doesn’t want to pay for constant maintenance and oversight, so they promote ‘naturalistic weather patterns,’ and look what happens! Snow in April, and flooding every other damn season.”
“Well, I enjoy it,” Gwen said, clicking her way toward the foyer. “I mean, who wants to wake up every day and know exactly what it’s going to be like outside? It would take all of the mystery out of life.” She paused at the front hall, pulling a tiny leather purse from the credenza and grabbing a Burberry overcoat from the front closet. “Do you want anything while I’m out?”
“No,” Ian replied tersely, buried in his paper again. “I’ll be gone all day, anyway. Today is Phase Four Implementation, remember?”
“Oh, darn, that’s right.” Gwen furrowed her tight brow, moving her gaze from Marion to Allison to Bernard, then back to Ian. “You really have to do that today?”
“Yes, honey, I really do. I mean, I know that a complete restructuring of the global financial trading network might not seem like that big a deal to you…”
“Now darling, you know that’s not what I meant. I just thought that, maybe, because of the security situation in the city and everything…”
“The flow of capital pauses for no man,” Ian replied, smiling at his own epigram. “Besides, Easter weekend is the absolute optimal time for a series of rolling outages — these are the lowest-volume trading days we’ll get until Christmas, and I’m damn sure not waiting that long.”
“Fine,” Gwen shot back, obviously finding it anything but. “So, um, Allison, you two will be all right here by yourself?”
“Who, us?” Allison leaned to look through the kitchen doorway, a plate of steaming, pastel-yellow eggs in her hands. “Oh, I don’t think we’d feel right about that. We’ll just leave whenever Bernard does. If the news reports are good, maybe we’ll go back down to the city today. If not, we’ll just go down to the Village for a while, have lunch on the beach.
“Oh, are you sure?” Gwen asked, obviously relieved.
“Of course. It’ll be fun to show Marion around — he’s never been here.”
“Never been? Well, my goodness!” Gwen stared at him as if she’d just noticed his Martian antennae. “Then, by all means, give the boy a proper tour — Ian will call the driver for you. I shan’t be gone more than an hour or two, at most.”
Marion tried to keep from gritting his teeth, thinking did this woman actually just use the word “shan’t?”
“Goodbye, dear — please do try to be home for dinner. And Bernie, you be careful in the city — don’t hesitate to call if you run into any trouble.”
“Thank you, Gwen, you’re really too kind. I’m certain everything will be fine.” Bernard was busy forking eggs and strips of crisp bacon onto his Fiestaware, and barely glanced up as Gwen disappeared out the front door.
“Every day an adventure, eh brother?”
Ian peered over his paper at Bernard, who was smiling mischievously as he crunched into a jam-smeared triangle of toast.
“Well, she manages to keep herself busy. I suppose I should thank the good Lord for that.”
“Amen.” Bernard raised his coffee mug in salute.
Marion watched as Ian pawed his way through the paper, smudges of newsprint spotting his thick fingers as he flipped and smoothed each page. It was on the third fold that Marion noticed the special section, headlined A City in Crisis. He took a bite of eggs and chewed slowly, scanning the upside-down print for pertinent news. There were a number of color pictures, and Marion’s eyes were drawn to a shot of the Medical Center, its wide marble façade covered in graffiti, the sloping stairs littered with broken glass. Angry protesters fanned flames of discontent that soon engulfed lower Manhattan, the caption read.
Wow, it’s really trashed. Marion found himself gripped by a strange sense of indignation. Look at that mess. They totally wrecked my home.
Ian turned the page brusquely, breaking Marion’s trance. We really should get moving, he thought, grabbing a carton of juice as turned toward Allison. And then, just as he was about to speak, the blurry headline caught the corner of his eye.
“Can you believe this?” Ian asked, angrily crumpling the edges of the paper. Marion spun back, his eyes locked onto the bold print, reading and re-reading the text as it rustled tautly between Ian’s hands.
PRISON ESCAPEES REMAIN AT LARGE
Allison leaned over the bar, holding a spatula in one fist. “Do you need a glass, Marion?”
Marion looked down at the orange juice, now trembling in his cold hand. “Yes,” he said, carefully putting the carton down. “Please.”
“All this whining about the Medical Center, and not a peep about the fact that the city is functionally bankrupt. I love how these idiots condemn the government’s good works, and totally ignore the bad.”
Bernard took a sip of coffee, regarding his brother with a weary gaze. “I’m not sure I’d call what goes on at the Medical Center ‘good works.’”
“Come on, Bernie.” Ian dropped the newspaper, and Marion had to resist the impulse to grab it out from under his meaty hands. “If they can cure Parkinson’s, if they can eliminate
leukemia, then yes, I call it good work.”
“And the poor woman who is reduced to selling the fruit of her womb?”
Ian snatched the paper from under Marion’s creeping fingers, hiding his sneer behind the gray print. “If the tissue is good, then more power to her. That’s the genius of capitalism.”
Bernard sighed, rising out of his chair. Allison edged around him, rolling her eyes theatrically as she set an empty glass in front of Marion. “And how are you doing this morning?”
Marion flicked his attention toward her, then glanced nervously back at the paper. “Well, I’m alive.”
“Glad to hear it.” She turned back toward the stove, failing to notice his panicked look.
Marion blindly poured himself a glass of juice, still tracking line after blurry line of upside-down newsprint across the table. The article was short and unilluminating, a dry account of the prison riot followed by a list of twenty or so names.
Not us, Marion prayed, running down the list. He missed it the first time, almost believing for a moment that they were safe. But then, on the second pass, his mouth went dry.
Allison Rayel. It lurked fourth from the bottom, two or three characters longer than the names directly above and below. Marion stared fixedly at it for a few seconds, trying to figure a way out.
Maybe he won’t read that far. It was unlikely, Marion knew, but what other chance did they have? Maybe he won’t look at all.
And then, as if on cue, Ian flipped the paper over and begin to read. Marion looked around frantically, trying to conjure up some kind of diversion.
“So, uh, Ian — you work in banking, huh?”
He looked at Marion over the folded paper, but didn’t put it down. “A bit more than that, I’d say. I’m in charge of international member compliance and oversee automated trading protocols for the entire GTA.”
“The GTA?” Marion tried to appear as raptly interested as possible.
“The Global Trading Alliance. It’s the governing body for every certified stock, bond, commodities and derivatives market currently in operation, foreign and domestic. I’m the Chief Infrastructure Officer, responsible for the continuing development and maintenance of the global network, which is really the backbone of the entire operation. In fact, you’re here on quite a momentous weekend…”
He finally lowered the paper a bit, and Marion contemplated simply snatching it away, consequences be damned.
“…because tomorrow we’re going live with VIGIL, a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week automated processing cluster that will seamlessly link each and every time zone and trading market into a single centralized database…”
“Ian, excuse me — is this still good?” Bernard leaned over the counter, a yellow lift pass pinched between his pudgy fingers. Ian glanced over, obviously annoyed at being interrupted.
“It’s Gwen’s. Should still have about two hundred on it.”
“Is that enough?”
Ian shrugged. “Get you to the city and back, yeah.”
“Will she need it?”
Ian chuckled dryly, his eyes drifting back toward the newspaper. “Gwen? She doesn’t jump levels, except to shop.”
Marion stared fixedly at the folded paper, his hands clenching and unclenching on the counter. It’s right in front of him, Marion realized. He’s looking right at it.
“So this, this Virgil thing, it’s pretty important?”
Ian didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did it was with a tone of measured distraction. “VIGIL. And yes, it’s… it’s completely revolutionary.” His voice trailed off as his forehead slowly compressed into a puzzled mass of wrinkles. Finally, he looked back up and fixed his eyes on Marion, his tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “What was Allison’s last name again?”
Marion almost got something out. Reynolds, or Randell, or Renoir; it was already in his throat when Bernard spoke up.
“Rayel,” he said cheerfully, sipping his hot coffee. “Allison Rayel.”
Allison glanced over from the stove, her glossy red bangs hanging just above her inquisitive green eyes. “I’m sorry? Do you need something?”
“No, nothing dear.” Bernard smiled. “Delicious coffee.”
Ian stood up from the counter, staring suspiciously at Marion as he backed toward the den.
“Bernard, I need to talk to you.”
Bernard looked over at Marion, puzzled. He put his mug slowly on the table, rising to follow his brother into the den. “What’s the big secret?”
The second they were out of sight, Marion jumped out of his chair, grabbed his windbreaker, and scrambled over the counter, knocking over a half-full glass of orange juice in the process. “We have to go,” he hissed, pulling Allison away from the stove. She looked startled, a few crumbs of bacon dropping from her lips.
“What?”
“He knows. Ian knows about the prison, about you — everything. It was in the paper.”
Allison wiped her hands against her stomach, dazed. “But what about the bacon?”
“Forget it.” Marion spied Ian’s earbug on the kitchen counter and scooped it up. It was one of the new ones, so small that it looked like a hearing aid — so tiny, in fact, that whenever Marion saw somebody using one he had a hard time telling if they were a high-powered professional or a schizophrenic homeless person.
He looked back at the living room door, knowing that they had no time. After fishing a small flathead screwdriver from his inside pocket, Marion set to work prying the minuscule battery plate off. Once he worked it free, he flipped the wafer-thin battery over and quickly snapped the cover back into place. He knew from experience that this would produce a low-level hum, hopefully prompting Ian to waste a few precious minutes trying to fix it, instead of simply tracking down another phone.
“Hurry up!” Allison motioned impatiently, moving toward the front of the house. Marion put the earbug back and ran after her, the sound of the arguing Moody brothers becoming more and more audible from the next room.
“Coming,” he said, ducking through the kitchen door. At the last second he pivoted back and grabbed Gwen’s lift pass from the counter, slipping it into his pocket as he dashed for the front door.
From the second they exited the house, they were completely lost. The Moody mansion was set at least a hundred meters from the closest road, so Marion and Allison had to slip and stumble down a dewy, perfectly maintained hill before they even reached the end of the driveway. Trying to keep a low profile, they crept along the row of square-cut boxwoods fronting the property, thankful that the neighborhood’s ostentatious homes were all set far back from the main road, leaving their passage relatively unimpeded. Every few moments a gleaming, humming hydrocell would sweep past, causing Marion to stare in wonder and fear — but, apparently, no one found them suspicious enough to actually stop.
“Are we going the right way?” he asked, looking nervously over his shoulder.
“I think so,” Allison replied uncertainly, limping along the narrow shoulder, her comically large slippers scuffing against the asphalt. “I remember taking a left off Crestview in their driveway. Anyway, most of the cells have been going our way, so we must be heading toward a major throughway, right?”
“Right.” Although Marion wasn’t entirely convinced, he decided it would be best to keep his reservations to himself. Luckily, a few lawns further on, they stumbled across a young kid standing by the road, wearing a school uniform and a surly expression on his face.
“Hey there,” Allison called out, trying to act nonchalant. “Do you know where we can catch a bus?”
The boy just stared at them, and for a moment Marion was afraid that he was going to start yelling for help. But then he took a few steps forward, staring down at Allison’s slippered feet.
“You’ve got funny shoes.”
“Why, yes, I do,” Allison admitted, tapping her toes back and forth across the lush gras
s. “And they need to get on a bus. Can you tell me where that is?”
“Where’s your driver?”
“He’s, um, back with our hydrocell,” Allison improvised, jerking her thumb in the direction of Ian’s house. “It ran out of charge, for some stupid reason, and we really need to get to the lift. So if you could just point in the direction of the shuttle…”
“We don’t have one.”
“Now honey, every place up here has a shuttle someplace nearby.”
“Not us. Shuttle’s for poor people.”
Allison attempted to hide her exasperation, blowing hair from her eyes and glancing at Marion for help.
“Okay, sure, of course,” Marion said, smiling pleasantly. “But it probably passes close by, right? Because the poor people have to get out here to, you know, clean houses and stuff.”
“Sure. But it won’t stop.”
“Well, maybe it will, if we wave handfuls of money at it,” Allison suggested.
“I doubt it.”
Marion resisted the temptation to smack the smug little snot in the face. “Could you please just tell us where it runs, so we can at least try?”
“That way.” The kid pointed vaguely over his shoulder. “On Sagg Street.”
“Thank you.” Marion grabbed Allison’s hand and dragged her forward, afraid that she was about to say something intemperate.
They finally intersected the main road a kilometer later, hitting the tree-lined thoroughfare just as a small flock of cyclists rushed by, teardrop-shaped helmets and lycra shorts clogging the two-lane blacktop.
“Look, there’s a bus stop.” Marion pointed up the road, where a small, glass-walled enclosure housed a few older Hispanic women and a bored-looking guy in a livery outfit sucking on a smokeless cigarette.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Allison began walking briskly toward the stop, with Marion close behind. As they drew close, she squinted at the route map and gave Marion a thumbs-up.
“We’re good — it terminates at the main lift station.”
They sidled into the shelter and attempted to blend into the waiting crowd, affecting bored indifference as they looked furtively around, searching for Ian — or worse, the police that he had almost certainly called by now. When the shuttle finally arrived, they ran gratefully toward the crowded interior. For his part, Marion couldn’t remember the last time he had actually looked forward to being stuck inside a crushing throng.
Once they made their way onboard — past the glaring driver, who seemed ready to throttle Marion for his clumsy inability to swipe the fare card correctly — they pushed determinedly toward the rear, squeezing into a small space at the back of the aisle.
At first, Marion felt incredibly awkward being pressed so close to Allison in the crowded space. But as they bounced along, and Allison smiled and laughed and held onto his arm for support, he gradually relaxed and began to enjoy the soft warmth of her body, and the fresh, citrusy smell of her copper-colored hair.
About thirty minutes later they arrived at the lift station, and all of the remaining bus passengers were disgorged, joining a swarming mass of locals and tourists filling the pavilion. Marion and Allison disembarked alongside the rest and strode purposefully toward a squat, wood-shingled windmill, trying their best to look like a couple of innocent daytrippers on a shopping excursion. They stopped under the windmill’s wide, latticed blades, and waited, ever-vigilant for any police or security guards who might be hunting them.
Finally — after what seemed like an hour, but was probably closer to ten minutes — an approaching lift slid quietly out of the clear sky, a distant steel plate impaled on an infinite skewer. Marion shaded his eyes, and they both watched apprehensively as the round shadow spread across the milling crowd.
“It’s going down,” Allison said. Marion tried to read the tone of her voice, but couldn’t quite figure it.
“Should we catch it?” He strained to keep his inflection steady, not wanting to sound like he cared one way or the other. “Back to the city, I mean.”
“The city?” Allison shrugged. “I dunno. It’s probably still a mess down there, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I’d imagine.”
“Plus, we’re fugitives, right? Maybe we should, you know, stay on the lam a little longer.”
Marion couldn’t help but grin, finding himself more and more enchanted by this impulsive, green-eyed stranger. He studied her delicate, porcelain-white face, finding it hard to believe that they’d met less than forty-eight hours ago — it already seemed like they’d been friends for ages.
“Yeah, good point. Besides, I’ve never seen the Garden before.”
After finding the correct queue, and waiting for yet another eternity, they finally reached the ticket window, and Marion handed over Gwen’s transportation card.
“Two for the Garden, please.”
The clerk waved the card over a reader and frowned at his display.
“Well,” he drawled, studying the screen, “if you’re both goin’, you only got enough to go one way.”
“That’s fine,” Marion and Allison answered in unison, then looked at each other and cracked up.
The man studied them suspiciously for a moment, then grudgingly began poking at his mediascreen with the eraser end of a pencil. “All righty,” he shrugged, pulling their tickets. “It’s your party.”
Marion grabbed the waxy passes from beneath the glass partition, already pivoting toward the loading gate. The ticket vendor leaned against his window, calling after them as they ran.
“Hey! You forgot your card!”
“Keep it!” Marion waved his hand cheerfully through the air, following Allison toward the approaching lift.
Four: The Garden
