“Damn,” Paul says.
We roll around the giant field—or farm, because that’s what this is—in silence. A smaller fenced area to our left contains a dozen or more cattle and a pond. Belvedere Castle, a gray stone building with a large tower and a giant stone terrace, perches on a mass of rock above.
Kate points to the water. “That’s Turtle Pond, although I’m not sure how many turtles are left. They ate some of them last year.”
Residents step from the path of our slow-moving vehicles. They look friendly, as in no one tries to shoot us. We curve around the field until we stop on another narrow path outside a round wooden building. Kate tells us it’s the Delacorte Theater, where they performed Shakespeare in the Park every summer. A steady stream of people come and go from a stone house-type building by the theater, which contains bathrooms with running water.
Just across the path is a collection of colorful rectangular structures—shipping containers turned into residences or gathering places. Another cluster sits beyond these, and still another on the northern end of the field. They’ve been made into houses, complete with windows and doors. Nearby, a few are connected to form a larger building, with a wide deck out front. A smaller version of the same thing sits farther north. The two hundred residents here have more than enough room to spread out.
“We walk up to the castle from here,” Kate says.
“They live in the castle?” I ask.
“Wait until you meet them,” Roger says. “You won’t be surprised they live in the castle.”
The uphill path is bordered by decorative fences made of wood. A couple of flights of stone stairs lead to the wide terrace outside the castle, where stone ledges allow an unfettered view of the park and surrounding buildings. Up here, the castle seems smaller than from below, maybe only two stories above terrace level.
Just under our perch is the pond, and, beyond that, the Great Lawn. Great Farm. The water is green with algae, though that hasn’t stopped a flock of ducks from calling it home. It’s peaceable, with no brick or concrete to mar the view. Besides this pond, they have a reservoir—a fully-gated reservoir—on the other side of the transverse, which they pump from as needed. A billion gallons of water in reserve if the city water runs out.
Beside me, Paul leans his elbows on the stone ledge. “It’s nice.”
“It’s unbelievable,” I say.
“Jealous?” he asks.
“Hell, yeah.”
Paul laughs. We turn when Kate greets an older gray-haired man approaching from the castle entrance. “Kate,” he says, “how lovely to see you again.”
“And you, Teddy,” she answers with a blatant lie. “We won’t take up much of your time. I know you lost some plants to, um—”
“Disease,” Teddy says. The loose skin around his eyes crinkles as in the suggestion of a smile, though his lips stay straight.
“Of course. We happen to have extra seeds, and we’re willing to trade them for soil and fertilizer.”
His face goes unreadable. He lifts his blue chambray shirtsleeve to check the time on his diamond-studded gold watch. “We’re not in dire straits here, but I can check with the others and see if it’s a trade worth making. I have some matters to attend to, but if you want to wait—”
I can’t be the only one who catches the slight upward tic of Kate’s eyes. “Save it for the congressional meeting, Teddy. Do you want seeds or not?”
Louis, standing behind Teddy, coughs into his fist. Kate primly links her hands behind her back.
“Hello, Kate!” a woman calls. She makes her way to us, dressed in a Martha Stewart-esque linen gardening outfit. Her brown and gray hair is bobbed, and her unnaturally tight skin announces she’s been the recipient of at least one face-lift in her life.
These two might have come out of central casting for Old Rich White Couple. The only thing more cliché would be if his wife was thirty years younger. But there were many people like them on the Upper East Side, which is what made it a cliché in the first place.
“Lauren, how’s it going?” Lauren begins to respond, and Kate cuts her off with, “So, if you want the seeds, we want the soil. We have corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, broccoli, beans, and some others. They’re all heirloom.”
“Oh,” Lauren says. “Where did you get them?”
“A friend.”
“Can I see the packages?”
Kate reaches into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out my paper envelopes. “All from this past fall.”
It physically hurts to see the seeds we toiled over given away. I remind myself I can’t plant them if I’m dead of starvation, which only barely eases my urge to rip them from Lauren’s hand.
Lauren inspects a couple of the envelopes, then opens one and peers inside, as though trying to find some fault. “We’ll give you a truck.”
“You’ll give us three. Two of which will be fertilizer. You guys have tons of it. Literal tons.” Kate reclaims the envelopes when no agreement is forthcoming, her smile cool as ice, and she tucks the seeds in her bag. “Sorry I wasted our time.”
Not your time, our time. It’s obvious Kate has zero fucks left to give when it comes to these people. She strolls across the terrace. Teddy and Lauren exchange a small smile, waiting for Kate to turn back and haggle. Maybe even beg.
Kate looks over her shoulder. “You guys coming?”
We dutifully follow. Halfway down the path, quick footsteps close in. Lauren and Teddy smile like gracious nobility taking pity on their ungrateful subjects. “Three trucks, though it’s not a fair trade,” Teddy says. “We know you need the soil, and we’re willing to give you an extra truck as a kindness.”
Kate closes her eyes. She opens them again, and her smile says go to hell. “Four trucks.”
Lauren’s eyes widen, if that’s possible. “What?” Teddy spits.
“If you’re going to give us an extra truck as a kindness, then four trucks. Because this is worth three. But I’m not above a little charity when it helps to feed five hundred people, so that would mean we get four trucks.”
Lauren lays a hand on Teddy’s arm, and he smiles, though hostility lurks in his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain, Kate. I could’ve used you in a meeting or two. Four trucks.”
Kate holds out a hand. After a moment, he shakes it.
8
They caved on the soil, but they didn’t volunteer to help load it. Thankfully, two trucks are already full. It’s slow going, and we have plenty of time to take in the park while we shovel a mountain of soil into the back of two of our trucks. We’ll leave our empty truck here in trade for their full ones. They don’t have a shortage of vehicles.
“How many acres you think this is?” Paul grunts, tossing a shovelful of dirt into the green truck.
“No idea. Maybe two hundred?” I turn over a bit of dark soil and spot a worm. If I had to let the seeds go, at least the soil is decent. I’m mourning the loss of those seeds, and I can’t shake the feeling that everything we have will be taken from us. First our world, then our families, our Safe Zone, our people, our seeds. Next, someone will want my clothes and the few lousy possessions I have left, all so I can survive one more day in this city.
“That’s a lot of land.” Paul throws a few more shovelfuls. “And the cows. Leo talks about chocolate milk all the time.”
His mention of Leo is a reminder that nothing matters except Leo’s survival, our survival. If this trade keeps us alive another year, it’s more than worth it. “They have evaporated milk and chocolate powder at the store,” I say. “I’ll use my credits for some.”
“You don’t have to buy my kid chocolate milk.”
“If I don’t, Sylvie will steal my credits for cigarettes. She blew all hers the first day.”
Paul laughs. “You know she gave most of that chocolate to the kids?”
I do know, which is why I traded a decent spare knife to Roger for a carton of cigarettes. Every time she lights up, she offers me one, and I fin
d myself taking them. This social smoker is beginning to crave one right now, in fact. I used to care, back when I thought not smoking would prolong my life. Plus, the smell is better than the zombie aroma that permeates everywhere in Manhattan. I take a deep breath. Everywhere but here. There’s enough distance, enough trees and earth, to absorb or overpower the odor.
“Almost done,” I say about the ever-growing mound of dirt in the truck.
Roger comes around the side of the vehicle, shaking out his arm. “We’re good on that side.”
Julie and Chris each throw in a few more shovelfuls. Paul and I do the same, and then we stick our shovels in the immense pile of soil—the Parks Department was geared up for a busy spring and summer before it all went to shit.
We had three trucks coming and have four trucks leaving. Louis checks the heights of the borrowed trucks to be certain we’ll fit under the overpasses on the FDR. “One overpass is too low, but it’s only on the southbound side,” he says. “Why don’t you and Paul bring up the rear in a new truck?”
Paul elbows his way into the driver’s seat and we head back the way we came, only this time with an escort to the FDR along 79th Street, where the gated intersections open to allow the passage of Lexers north to south if there’s too big a buildup. The escort is necessary; both sides of every intersection have bodies gnawing at the fencing. Our trucks attracted nearby Lexers on our way to Central Park, and not enough time has passed for them to forget.
The street ends at the FDR. Carmen salutes us as we roll by and then slams the gate shut. I watch her fit two locks into the metal and then turn my attention to the northbound lanes we’ll take south. The road is bordered by more Lexers than on our way up. It’s to be expected, but I still don’t like it.
Paul peers at the screen in the dash. “I have no idea what I’m doing here, bro.”
It’s a diesel-hybrid automatic transmission, though it has a button for manual. The entire dash is buttons and dials, most of whose use escapes us. “Hitting the gas seems to work,” I say.
We travel at a reasonable speed until we slow about a mile and a half down the road, where the third lane splits off into a ramp that rises to cross over the southbound lanes. It was a northbound entrance back when people only traveled north on this side.
The trucks ahead stop. I lean out the window, heart beating way too fast for what must be only a zombie in the road, or maybe fallen debris. This is reminiscent of our trip to JFK, and Paul’s grip on the steering wheel says he’s feeling it, too.
“See anything?” he asks.
“Just the trucks and the ramp,” I squint through the sunshine at a large object on the road, “and maybe a car up there.”
An arm comes out of the SUV and waves us up. Paul pulls to the passenger window, where Kate sits stiff and alert. “Stay in your truck. There’s a vehicle blocking the lanes, and the trucks won’t fit under the overpass on the southbound side.”
“The hell?” Paul asks.
It wasn’t there earlier. Someone put it there, and they put it there for us. I watch three beads of sweat make their way down Roger’s temple to his chin, then plop to his lap.
Kate presses the button on her radio. “We can take the ramp to 48th and then the streets home.” She releases the button and says to us, “Except I feel like the rat being guided in the maze, and I’m not heading for a reward.”
“Maybe that’s what whoever did this wants us to do,” Louis’ voice comes back.
“Yeah, I know. Back up?”
Louis agrees. A squeal of metal comes from behind. The giant steel structure that holds the green road signs over the highway begins to tilt slowly, not at all in time to the rapid pulse in my throat. The crash as it hits the asphalt sounds eerily similar to a hammer knocking the final nail in our coffins.
Kate watches in the side view mirror. “Hail Mary, get us out of this one.”
“We’ll have to try the ramp,” Louis says. His voice is fast yet calm. “I go first.”
His truck roars and begins the climb, rounding out of sight. The second truck, holding Julie and Chris, follows. Marshall is next. Thirty seconds later, the horns and siren of a car’s panic alarm split the silence, coming from the vehicle on the road.
“Mob heading your way,” Louis’ voice crackles through the radio. “Gate’s open but they’ve blocked the lane. We can’t get through. We’ll wait and run. You do the same.”
We have no other option. Whoever is feeding Lexers toward that alarm made sure of that. I’d congratulate them on their well-executed plan if I weren’t caught in the middle.
“Where will we meet?” Kate asks. A burst of static is punctuated by a high squeal. She curses and looks from her radio to the bodies that have appeared on the ramp two blocks’ distance away.
I peer outside, keeping my head low. Trees partially screen the southbound side, which is free of bodies. On the north we’re sitting ducks. No sign of people, but there are tall buildings off the FDR from which one could use a rifle to take us out. It’s either sit here and die, or try and die.
I point to the southbound lanes. “Over the fence and to the trees off the highway?”
Kate and Roger nod. I’m closest to the fence, which means I’ll be the first shot. I consider easing the door open, but the advancing Lexers aren’t waiting. I fling the door wide and run across the few feet of lane. The fence above the concrete median is chain-link, six feet tall. I crouch to wait for the others, pistol in hand and eyes on the buildings. If there’s someone up there, which there must be, they’re not shooting yet.
Paul is at my side a moment later, Kate and Roger just after. “Go,” I say to Kate.
I hold out a hand to give her a boost, but she clambers up. Roger is next. Paul and I crest the top as Kate crosses the three southbound lanes and jettisons herself over the short iron gate into the trees. She pops out again, pistol in hand and eyes on the roofs to cover us.
My brain screams that a bullet is coming, and my body is tense enough that the bullet might bounce off. We reach the fence and fall through leafless bushes into a small park below street level, lined with paving stones and benches. A tall woman in a tracksuit hits Roger before we can get our bearings, and he goes down into the remains of last fall’s leaves with a whump.
I wrap my hand in her ponytail and yank. Her entire scalp slides off with a slopping sound. I grab her purple jacket by the collar and throw her to the side while Paul helps Roger from the ground. He gets to his feet with a quick nod of thanks and readies his machete for the ones closing in.
Kate points toward the end of the park fifty feet away. “Stairs over there.”
Rather than waste time killing them, we run. I’m more worried about a bullet. I push a man into two others, who go down like bowling pins. Paul edges in front and runs first up the staircase, axe in two hands ready to swing, but there’s no need for it at the top.
Stone apartment buildings line the dead-end street. Ones most people could only dream of, with arched entryways and old, multi-paned windows. It’s quiet—the distant blare of the car alarm has stopped. As long as they get past the Lexers, or stay quiet in their vehicles to outwait them, Louis and the others might’ve made it out. I haven’t heard a single gunshot, which leads me to believe whoever did this doesn’t want us dead, but they do want our vehicles.
We keep silent on our approach to First Avenue. Halfway there, it’s obvious we’re stuck until the Lexers forget that car alarm and wander off. The entrance to a high-rise building is on the side street, and, after whispered deliberation, we head inside.
We climb the stairs and find an empty apartment on the fourth floor which provides a view of the avenue. Every wall has multiple windows, and French doors open onto a shallow balcony. The furniture is tasteful taupe, and pictures of a smiling couple line the minimalist white shelves on the wall.
I’m sweating bullets, even now that we’ve stopped moving. I take off my jacket and pull my water from my small backpack. “Anyone want?�
�
Kate waves my bottle away, then slips out of her pack and sets it at her feet before digging inside. “I have. If I didn’t, it would be against protocol.” Roger extracts a bottle from his own bag, and she says, “Rog, look at you, following directions.”
Roger shrugs. “Every once in a while.”
We sit on the couches and compare water supplies. We have enough for today and tomorrow, but numerous water towers sit on the roofs of buildings down the block. The reserve water in the bottom has saved me before, and it may need to again.
“I hope they got out,” Kate says. “I wish we could’ve seen what was happening.”
I mention my thoughts about the lack of gunfire. Roger nods, eyes narrowing. “You think it was Central Park? I could see them doing that.”
Kate finger-combs her hair and reties it into a ponytail. “They knew where we were going and what we had. But it seems like a drastic response. They have plenty of soil. I can’t imagine they would think it worth a war. We didn’t injure them to get it—it was a fair trade. All they had to say was no.”
“You might’ve injured Teddy’s manhood,” I say.
“What manhood?” Paul asks.
“Well, now we’ve got nothing.” Kate pinches the bridge of her nose. “And you lost your seeds for no good reason, Eric. I’m really sorry about that.”
“It happens,” I say. It’s not how I feel about the situation, but I cram my true feelings down with the rest of the impotent rage. I’m getting good at it. Years of actual calm have trained me to pretend I am.
Roger puts a pillow behind his head and closes his eyes. “Wake me when they leave.”
9
Sylvie
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 6
