I twist my head. Walt walks toward me flanked by two men with guns. He pulls Roger to his feet and lifts his eyebrows when I reach for my gun. It’s four feet away, and the rifle on my back might as well be a mile. I’d be dead before I aimed it.
“Thanks, Rog,” Walt says. His is the forceful, eminently reasonable voice from before.
I try to catch my breath, catch up with reality. I’m lying on the ground, Walt above me, with the tree branches waving in the breeze above his head. I can feel every molecule of the chilled dirt beneath me, hear every leaf whisper against its neighbor.
Walt could be a different person. A younger, livelier version of the timid man he pretended to be. His shoulders are squared where before they sloped, hair longer and pushed up and to the side, a bit of stubble instead of a smooth weak chin. Even his eyes are different. They sparkle with good cheer. Victory.
“I think he’s in shock,” Walt says. “Help him up, Roger. He’s your friend, yes? Take his weapons, too.”
Roger kneels to take my rifle and pull my knife from its sheath. I love that knife, but I’ll give it up. I’ll give it all up for a chance to get out of here. He wraps an arm under my chest, whispering, “Just do what he says.”
I rise to my knees, clutching my right side when pain takes my breath away. The idea of running is laughable. The two men, both well-fed and young, would as likely catch me as shoot me in the back.
“So, now what?” Walt asks Roger.
Roger shuffles his feet and runs a hand through his hair. He looks in the direction of the buildings, not meeting his brother’s eyes. “You said you weren’t going to do this, Jeff. You were going to make a truce.”
“And we still are!” Walt says agreeably. “But only with people we can trust. Let me ask you, can I trust Eric?”
I look to Roger. He gazes back like he’s drunk or muddled. He has my life in his hands, and he won’t fucking answer. “I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll leave the city. You can have it.”
Walt studies me over folded arms, head tipped to the side. “Rog, do you think he’ll leave the city? Let me have it? Can you guarantee I’ll be safe? Remember, it’s the only way to guarantee your safety.”
I wait for Roger to answer. Nod. Anything. But Roger stands spiritless, pathetic, as though Walt—Jeff—channeled Roger when he acted his former role.
“Roger,” I say. “I’ll leave. You’ll never see me again. I swear.”
I try to keep a desperate plea from my voice, but I’ve learned another thing today—you’ll beg for your life if you think there’s a chance. A strange energy brews in Roger’s eyes. “There’s no way to leave the city,” he says softly.
“True,” Walt says. “Do you think he’ll let me have it?”
Roger shakes his head without looking my way. “He swore he’d kill you one day.”
The world swims, my brain hums. I open my mouth but have nothing to say. Even if I could run for the sewers, I wouldn’t lead Walt there. If the others haven’t left, I’d cut off their opportunity to escape.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Walt says, his smile tight. He motions at the two men. “Put him with the rest.”
One takes my arm, the other walks with the eye of his pistol staring me down. I stumble to get in rhythm with the first while bent at the waist. There must be something I can do. A plan. But while my muscles are tensed, my brain is sluggish.
The Oval has returned to quiet. There are three groups of people. One small, one larger, and the largest—where I catch a glimpse of Micah and Rissa, Harold and April, before I’m pushed into the smallest group, all of whom kneel in the dirt. Louis, Artie, and Alma are here. Every council member, in fact, but Bridget and Kate. Over two dozen people I recognize as having been here since the beginning. The ones most likely to want Walt dead. The ones who are going to die.
May stands across the path by the basketball court garden. Her arms clutch Chen’s and Emily’s shoulders, and her eyes stay on me. I try to smile at them, but the best I can do is a grimace through the pain in my side, which increases with every passing minute.
Louis, a few feet away, watches me with concern. “Are you all right?” he murmurs.
My coat is torn over my ribs, the fabric damp. I peel my fingers away and see blood. Enough to figure out Roger’s knife must’ve gone through. My knife. The one I traded to him.
“Stay as still as you can,” Louis says. I almost laugh. The smallest move is painful, like I did two thousand crunches and climbed Everest yesterday.
Elena sits on a bench behind May, Aurelia in her lap. Felix’s feet don’t hit the ground while he observes the new people with giant, shocked eyes. Elena rocks back and forth. Sylvie said she worried about Elena’s sanity; this could be the final straw.
“Found this one trying to escape.” A man pushes Lucky onto the path. Lucky shrugs him off, sucking his teeth. I’ll say this for the kid—he’s turning out to be as tough as his uncle.
Micah steps from the crowd, pushing Rissa behind him. “He belongs with me.”
Walt—Jeff—whoever—eyeballs Micah with interest. “Does he?”
“Yes, and I understand I need to keep him in line. Lucky won’t try that again.” Micah points toward Harold and Lincoln. I can just make out the faint tremble of his hand, but his voice is extraordinarily calm. “We all live in an apartment together.”
“You’ve got a regular Boys Town going on,” Walt says. “I like it.” He raises his eyebrows in warning, though it’s more lenient than aggressive. “Listen to this guy. If you’re good, we’ll let you play with the big boys.”
Lucky walks, head down, to Micah. From my vantage point on the ground, I see his thinned lips and narrowed eyes. Wipe that look off your face, Lucky. When he lifts his head, he’s your average sullen teenage boy. Eli, indeed.
A sharp pain in my right shoulder sends me to the dirt on my ass. Ribs hurt worse, too. Walt crouches inches away while I take shallow breaths so I don’t scream.
“You’re hurt,” he says. He opens my jacket and peers at my shirt. I look down. A tear, more blood. Walt lifts my shirt to inspect my chest. “Stabbed right in the ribs. That can’t be good.”
Roger turns away, pale beneath his dark hair. I flinch when Walt pats my shoulder. “It won’t matter in a little while. That’s three of the four, now.” His smile is wolfish when he leans close. “Let’s see—Eli, Guillermo, Eric, and Jorge. You wouldn’t happen to know where Jorge is, would you?”
I stare him down soundlessly. Though I’d like to say it’s due to my unfaltering courage, it’s the unrelenting pain. I can hear Walt, see him, but there’s a hazy layer between us. I want to ask where Eli and Guillermo are. The words won’t come.
“You don’t look long for this world,” he says, getting to his feet. “Roger!” Roger trots to Walt and awaits instructions. “You know where people live. Move them into…I’d say no more than two buildings. Let them take some of their things for tonight. Post guards.”
Roger nods, gaze darting to me and away. Coward.
“Listen up, friends,” Walt calls. He strolls to the path and faces the assembled groups. “It’s moving day, but how this goes is up to you. I think you’ll be surprised at how little will change if you follow the rules. Right now, the rules are get settled, relax, and wait for dinner. Who’s cooking today?”
A few people raise their hands. “Excellent,” he says, and points to a man and woman in their thirties. “Denise, Tai, you two supervise.”
The guy, who must be Tai, points to those of us who kneel. “You want help with them? I thought we were going to show what happens when you don’t follow the rules.”
“Tai, they have kids here. We don’t want to scar them for life. Have a little faith in your fellow humans, you sadistic son of a bitch.”
Tai grins, brushing a black curl off his forehead. “All right, boss. Let’s go, Denise.”
Denise. The name finally connects. Denise from Sunset Park, who left for Sacred Heart with Rissa’s
phone. She’s in regular clothes, her curly hair in a tight ponytail, and her dour face turns satisfied when she looks my way.
“C’mon, Dominic,” she says, smiling. Her son, a year older now, rushes from the group of Walt’s people. She and Tai steer today’s restaurant crew toward the café.
“Why are you doing this?” Artie sputters.
“I’ll spare you,” Walt announces. “I’ll spare everyone but Eric and Louis, if you give me Kate.”
“Fuck you,” Artie says. Stress and exertion have turned his hair into gray cotton candy, and his glasses are askew, but he holds his chin high.
“I never could understand why everyone loved Kate,” Walt says. “Declan was even worse.” He turns to Louis, who, aside from shooting me troubled glances, has been preternaturally still. “Is it a mother thing?”
Louis’ eyes are murderous in an impassive face. Walt shakes his head. “It’s too bad, Louis. I would’ve liked you on my team.” He turns to Roger. “All right, get them out of here. We’ll be by the river if you want to join us.”
Finally, Roger comes to where I kneel. “I’m sorry. I won’t let anything happen to Sylvie. I promise.”
I should take comfort in those words. And maybe part of me does, but the rest of me blazes with enough hatred to douse him in gasoline and throw a match after it. I wouldn’t be here if not for Roger. I’d have made it out, and Sylvie and I would be taking care of each other.
Walt nods to the men who surround us, then hauls me to my feet. People turn in the crowd to watch us pass—May, Elena, Indy’s boys, Micah. This should be a moment of intense stares, silent goodbyes, but I can’t do it. The scene is dreamlike. Illusory. Sylvie would like that word.
The inner gate goes by in a blur. I never loved it here, but now I want to clutch every brick I see. Kiss the streets and gates and all the cinderblocked windows.
Walt catches my arm when I trip. “I was going to let bygones be bygones,” he says. “But then I got a radio call from Roger. He figured out who I was—he’s a smart kid—and wanted to warn me. I knew you wouldn’t forgive and forget. You tried so hard to be friendly. You’re the nicest guy in the world, and you were shot down at every turn, eh? That must’ve been frustrating.”
He laughs—a low, satisfied chuckle. I pull from his arm and stagger down the center of the loop. I hate him. If I thought I hated him before, it had nothing on now. A vicious, hot miasma of hate clears my thoughts for a moment, and I reach for him with renewed strength.
Walt dances away. “C’mon,” he says with a you-know-better smile. “I have a gun. They have guns. You do not.”
A lumberjack-hipster guy pushes me along by my back, his mouth tight under his beard. The gate to the intersection slides open. I watch my feet step from white line to white line on the crosswalk. I can’t stop them moving. Not here, and not when we reach the gate under the FDR and head for the water.
“Over to the right,” Walt calls. “Less cleanup.”
They line us up where the fence at the river is older iron. Lumberjack pushes me to my knees. Louis is to my left with Artie on his other side. Behind us, a wiry guy keeps a gun on our heads, along with a few other men. A woman sobs.
“Eric,” Louis whispers. “Can you swim?”
I shake my head. Normally, I can swim a mile. Right now, I’m bent to the right. My stomach broils with pain. On a better day—an unstabbed day—I’d jump the waist-high fence and dive into the water. It’s full of shit and debris, but among all that shit is a fighting chance.
Screams, a despairing moan, come from the other end of the line. I hear Walt’s voice, then a single gunshot. A small scream, and another. He’s doing it. I turn my head for the next one. Twenty people away, a woman named Carla watches the clouds, mouth open in silent agony. The wind carries away any small sound she makes as Walt’s gun presses to the base of her head.
The shot knocks her forward, head down and mouth open, into the iron railing. She leans there, brain matter dripping from where she had a face. And we kneel awaiting the same fate. This is not a test.
I don’t want to die. The thought is so clear, so sad, that I feel bad for my lucid self’s disappointment. I am going to die. I won’t see Sylvie again. I won’t know if she’s safe. I won’t know anything. Chances are she won’t be safe. Chances are she’s already not.
Another gunshot.
Once, on a climb, the ice slipped out from under me. I slid fifty yards on my stomach, careering for a drop-off, and self-arrested with my ice axe just before the slide off the cliff that would’ve killed me. It was the same then. A clear thought: You’re going to die. I pictured my parents and Cassie crying. The funeral. People sobbing about a young life cut short while secretly wondering why I tempted fate in the first place.
More gunshots. A scream and a sob. Gunshot. Another. I’ve lost count.
But there’s a difference between then and now: I fought. I used my axe. When Walt attacked Sunset Park, I had the thought that if I was going to die, I’d do my best to take him down with me. And here I kneel, waiting for death as placidly as an unsuspecting cow at the slaughterhouse.
A small gush of blood warms my torso, trickling to my waist. My stomach is hot. Hard as a rock. My legs are weak. My mind is slipping away with my strength. I’m going to die here, or in the water, or if I try to run, or if I do nothing at all.
Beside me, Louis’ hand clenches. Callused brown fingers locked in defiance. He’s looking for a way out, the way I should be. Our weapons are gone. I have a multitool in my coat, but that won’t do shit. My favorite knife now belongs to Roger. My boot. The knife in my boot. I won’t make it out of here, but Louis and Artie might if I give them the chance.
Someone begs. His breath comes in gulps. Barry, a nice guy who voted to let us use the weapons and offered to bring people to our side. Next to him is Marian, who has her face in her hands
“Jesus, Barry,” Walt says. “Have some self-respect. You’re worse than Marian.”
I lower to my heels, dipping my head like I’m in pain—not a stretch—and slip my hand between my legs to tug up the hem of my jeans. Another inch until I find the sheath at the top of my boot. I palm the handle of the thin blade.
“Get ready to run,” I murmur to Louis. “Don’t wait for me.”
Louis’ fist tightens. “He’ll kill y—”
“I’m dying anyway.”
Without waiting for a reply, I haul myself to my feet using the iron rail. Walt rears back as I rush him, knife out. It hurts to lift the blade, and it’s agony to sink it into the stomach of his coat. The knife gouges brown leather and then drops to the cement. Walt kicks it to the side and shoves me away. I stumble until my ass hits iron, jarring my midsection and producing a nauseating wave of pain.
Can you swim? Louis asked before. New answer: Probably not, but I’ll give it my best shot.
Walt raises his gun. I use my last bit of strength to hoist myself backward over the railing, and then I fall to the water.
47
Sylvie
Slow yet steady gunshots begin as we near the roof. More come while we run in the direction of the river. More before we reach the ledge. The strip of path on the river side of the FDR is visible, and, in the distance, seven men stand behind a line of kneeling people. Over a dozen people lie on the ground and a man walks behind the line of those who kneel. Even from afar, it’s obvious it’s the man who called himself Walt.
He lifts his arm, and a shot echoes. The kneeling person falls. I gasp when I see Artie. Louis. On the other side of Louis, Eric kneels with his head down. I want to be wrong, but I know that coat, that tousled brown hair, and the set of those shoulders like I know my own reflection. Better, even.
“Oh, my God,” Indy whispers.
I don’t understand why he doesn’t run. Fight. Something. A moment later, I do—he’s hunched over, tilted to his right. He’s injured, and it must be bad, because Eric shrugs off things that would fell other people. Nothing has ever filled me with
as much despair as watching him helpless and waiting to die.
I pull my gun when another shot comes. The next person in line slumps to the ground. I won’t hit anything from here, but I’ll distract them. Maybe they’ll come for me instead. Maybe he’ll have time to run. Eric folds over, and my heart stops before he lifts his head and drags himself to standing. He runs for Walt with a lopsided gait and hits with so little force Walt barely rocks on his feet. He shoves Eric toward the railing and raises his gun as Eric drops backward into the water.
I fire toward the highway, afraid that, if by some miracle one reaches, I’ll shoot the wrong person. Indy and Casper join in until our barrage forces Walt and his men to hide in the safety of the overpass. Of the people who still kneel, only Louis and Artie rise to their feet and scramble the fence to the sloped exit of the FDR.
I space out my final rounds until the two have reached the curve in the road and jumped to the ConEd plant. The first of Walt’s men emerges from cover. Casper and Indy duck low, but I step back and search the water for Eric, who likely can’t swim well while he’s injured and fully-clothed.
Indy grabs my arm. “We have to go.”
“Go,” I say, my eyes on the river. “I’ll leave soon.”
Plenty moves in the water now that low tide rushes toward the Verrazano: chunks of boat that refuse to sink, bodies new and old, bits of things that sparkle and flash. But nothing like a body swimming. Nothing breaks the surface. I’m so far—twelve stories up, more than a block over—that I might not see him anyway.
“Sylvie!” Indy half-stands, yanking at my coat. “Now!”
Walt’s men point to this corner of StuyTown, rifles aloft. There are a few buildings and many floors for them to check, and they don’t have a clue. Four stay to watch the remaining prisoners while the others run beneath the overpass onto Avenue C, intent on the gate. I only spare them a glance before I check the water again. My heart thunders, my hope falters. He’s in there, somewhere, and I’m going to find him. I did not just watch him die—I watched him live.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 32
