Near Enemy

by Adam Sternbergh

  At first, all the press releases promised New Life With No Limitations. The lame shall walk. The blind shall see. Every dream now becomes a reality.

  The No Limitations part of their pitch was correct, but not in the way that they meant.

  Limnosphere.

  It’s bigger than all of us now.

  And this building? This address?

  One Times Square?

  This is where they flipped the switch to turn it on.

  Big ceremony.

  Held at midnight.

  Broadcast around the world.

  Simulcast to the NASDAQ floor. Kept open late just for the occasion.

  Shown twenty stories high on the billboards outside. Back when Times Square was still packed with people.

  The company’s apple-cheeked owner, a boy genius, barely thirty, stood giddy with his hand poised on the big switch.

  Not the actual switch. A novelty switch.

  Built for the photo op.

  Count it down.

  Ten.

  Nine.

  Crowds in Times Square chanting too.

  Eight.

  Seven.

  As well as the brokers on the NASDAQ floor.

  Six.

  Five.

  Apple Cheek’s beaming.

  Four.

  This kid who’d grown up dreaming of changing the world. Three.

  Now he would. Though not exactly. Not change it.

  Two.

  Just replace it.

  One.

  Flip the switch.

  Happy New World.

  Fireworks soaring up over Times Square, bright thudding explosions you could see for miles and miles.

  Ding.

  Twenty-fifth floor.

  My stop.

  Another guard in the hallway sitting on a metal folding chair.

  This one’s not dozing. Not reading. Not texting.

  Just sitting.

  Like maybe he’s expecting me.

  Blond brush cut. Similarly Teutonic. Could have come in a matched set with the one in the lobby.

  He pops to his feet and kicks the folding chair aside.

  Doesn’t grab for his sidearm, unfortunately.

  Just assumes a fighting posture.

  Knees loose. Hands up.

  Waits for me.

  So much for my walk-straight-toward-him-punch-punch-while-he-fumbles approach.

  Too bad. I’m fond of that approach.

  His stance suggests training. Krav Maga, I’m guessing. Or maybe something Brazilian. Definitely something expensive. Practiced for years, no doubt, against some poor dummy in a sweaty gym somewhere. All that pent-up childhood rage leaking out through head blows, neck blows, body blows, killing blows.

  As for me, I consider the box-cutter.

  Still in my pocket.

  My fingers find it.

  Grip it.

  I’ve found there’s no fighting style yet invented that isn’t improved by the addition of something sharp.

  I approach him. Slowly.

  Teuton bounces lightly, waiting. Adjusts his fighting stance.

  As for me, I don’t assume any kind of stance.

  My best advantage is I don’t really have a style.

  Just a few rules I learned in a Jersey schoolyard.

  Rule one: Start hitting.

  Rule two: Keep hitting.

  I move toward Teuton slowly and look for my opening.

  That’s the other lesson I learned in the Jersey schoolyard.

  No matter what, there’s always an opening.

  He hikes his tactical trousers, the kind with all the little pockets, which is the wrong move, because he telegraphs exactly what’s coming next. And, sure enough, he looses two smooth and elegant roundhouse kicks toward my head, which are very pretty, and very slow.

  Both miss.

  He readjusts. Assumes his stance again. Gets ready to unleash a third. A move he’s practiced a million times in a fancy gym somewhere.

  And when he does, I know that, for just a fraction of a second, just the time it takes to loose each kick, he’ll be standing on one leg, as stable as a flamingo. One leg in the air, one leg on the ground, and a whole lot of vulnerable in between.

  Here’s another trick I learned in a Jersey schoolyard. Learned it, in fact, the day after Terry Terrio learned how to do a roundhouse kick in his fancy judo class.

  When someone tries to kick you, dodge. Then go for the other leg.

  All you need to do is knock it out. Using your arm, leg, broomstick, whatever’s handy.

  As for me, I use my leg.

  He kicks.

  I dodge.

  Then swipe.

  Teuton goes down. Drops like two tons.

  And in a fight like this, once you’re down, that’s bad.

  Because then I have a chance to get on top of you.

  Which brings us back to rule number one.

  Start hitting.

  Followed by rule number two.

  Keep hitting.

  Repeat as necessary.

  Teuton’s out.

  But there’s something weird about it. Because he’s too big, and too quick, and frankly too skilled to go down that fast.

  Not exactly without a fight, but close enough.

  Like I said, I can hold my own, but I’m not Bruce Lee.

  Either way, this is way too easy.

  This is Terry Terrio easy.

  Almost like someone told him to look tough, raise his dukes, take a few pokes, then take a fall.

  But who would tell him that?

  Not Lesser.

  Bellarmine?

  Or maybe I’m just better at punching people than I remember.

  In any case, I leave him napping.

  And head toward the door at the end of the hall.

  34.

  Battery Park City.

  Mayor’s motorcade arrives. Entourage spills out of four shiny limos. Suits, thugs, assistants, factotums.

  Factotum. Good word.

  Means toady, basically.

  Interns on headsets bark orders at other interns. All waiting for the mayor to disembark.

  Chauffeur in full regalia holds the limo’s rear door open. Chauffeur has more brocade on him than a banana-republic general.

  Holds the door. Waits.

  Then out comes our mayor.

  To a fusillade of flashbulbs.

  Gives a wave.

  Enjoys an entrance.

  Might seem weird that the mayor of a dead city still gets so much pomp and circumstance.

  But there’s still a lot of money here, if you know which pockets to pilfer.

  So what if the center of the city is abandoned and radioactive?

  Think of your average banana republic.

  Power is often built on the back of ruin.

  On the runaway train.

  She’s maybe six-six. In flat feet.

  Bare feet, actually.

  Toenails painted black. Fingernails too.

  Her head tickles the underside of the roof of the subway car. She’s tall, and she’s Asian, maybe Korean. Dressed in a sharp black suit and a crisp white shirt, perfectly pressed, spotless, open at the neck. Neckline looks like it was freshly cut with the sharp end of a brand-new blade.

  Black hair, with a shaved head.

  No, not shaved.

  What do you call it?

  Pixie cut.

  She smiles.

  Hey fellas.

  Mark answers.

  I don’t suppose you’d just let us pass through.

  She smiles wider. Great smile.

  No can do, unfortunately.

  As she says this, she holds up one hand, blunt nails, tar-black polish, with her five fingers spread wide, a chunky silver ring balanced on the middle knuckle of each finger.

  Wait. Not rings.

  Buzz saws.

  Tiny buzz-saw blades about the size of throwing stars.

  Mark’s impressed.

  Nice acc
essories.

  She nods toward him.

  Nice wings.

  Like they’re flirting now.

  Then she wiggles her fingers, as if she’s waving toodle-oo.

  Saws jingle like jewelry.

  Simon scowls.

  She smiles.

  Simon the Magician. Such a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you. You going to show me some of your famous tricks?

  That depends. What’s the plan?

  She shrugs.

  Well, my plan is to send you both back topside in little chunks. Let your brains try to figure out whether you’re still alive or not.

  Simon scoffs. Rests his hands on his holstered revolvers.

  I just hope you put up a better fight than Do-Good.

  Glint off the saw blades as she gives them both a wink.

  Says to Simon.

  Well, it’s not like they call me Do-Same.

  Simon draws and fires but she’s already dodged sideways while also giving three quick and effortless wrist-flips, sending three spinning saw blades arcing toward Mark.

  Like little silver Frisbees, he thinks, in that weird slo-mo moment as he watches them sail toward him. Then he wonders why she uses buzz saws and not traditional throwing stars. Seems like an unnecessary flourish.

  Then he dodges left. Presses himself flat against the scratched-up subway window.

  Two saws arc wide. Warning shots.

  Third saw hits the window with a thunk about two feet away from Mark’s face.

  Bad aim. Mark smirks.

  Then the third saw starts spinning.

  Sawing. Spitting glass.

  And racing toward his face.

  The blade splits a long gash in the spray-painted window as it slices toward him like a quick snake slithering through water.

  He jumps back.

  It barely misses.

  Blade blows him a kiss as it passes by.

  Okay, he thinks.

  So that’s why she uses the buzz saws.

  She’s in a crouch now and airmailing three more blades quickly thereafter. This time toward Simon.

  He fires off each handcannon one more time, two loud booms that do nothing, just shatter seats, then he dives right as the saws slice the air over him.

  Do-Better laughs. Impish laugh.

  Simon rises and brushes himself off, just in time for the saws to circle back.

  Boomerang. After all. Just a dream.

  Laws of physics aren’t really laws in here. Just suggestions. Just problems to be solved, Simon thinks, as both blades hit him with a stereo thunk-thunk.

  Dumb move, Simon thinks. Should have seen that one coming.

  Stupid Simon.

  Saws sink in.

  Blades bite.

  Then start to spin.

  White turtleneck dyed red.

  Simon snarls. Lets his grip slip on a handcannon, which clatters to the subway floor and misfires. Punches a hole the size of a grapefruit in the window.

  He holsters the second long revolver and grabs at the wound high in his left arm, just as the buzz saw chews its way through the muscle, then sails clear toward the back of the car.

  Simon clamps his right hand over the wound.

  Then looks at the back of his right hand.

  So that’s where the second saw landed.

  Simon starts to go into shock. Fights it off.

  Saw still spinning.

  Chews into his hand.

  Through his hand.

  Then into the wound he’s clutching.

  Simon still snarling. Until finally he screams.

  One scream. Can’t suppress it.

  Buzz saw cuts a beeline through his body and sails free out the other side, whipping blood in great arcing swaths like a sprinkler as it spins.

  Mark flies.

  Or, at least, spreads his wings.

  Does his best.

  Bounces.

  Toward Do-Better.

  Aptly named, as it turns out.

  Not a drop of sweat on her, not a mark, as both Mark and Simon bleed.

  Mark keeps aloft in the cramped car just long enough to dodge two more spinning saw blades. They whiz past him and bury themselves in the subway’s ceiling. Chew through. Sail out spinning into the darkness of the tunnel and whatever lies beyond.

  Mark gives his wings two muscular flaps and rushes her and conjures, then readies, his sword.

  Blade aflame.

  And with two tiny gestures, barely perceptible, like she’s simply knocking gently on someone’s front door, Do-Better sends two more spinning buzz saws straight toward him.

  One veers left. One veers right.

  Ha-ha, this time you missed me, he thinks. Until he realizes she didn’t.

  Each saw having snipped blood feathers in his wings.

  Clipped a few of his flight feathers too.

  The ones you need to fly.

  Blood sprays.

  Stained wings.

  Mark plummets.

  Wings clipped.

  Sword clatters.

  Mark’s grounded.

  Flame out.

  Simon sits and leans against a bench, legs splayed, and groans like a Civil War soldier in the middle of having his leg sawn off. Bite the bullet, Simon thinks.

  Bite the bullet.

  Unghhhhhhh.

  And he sweats and grimaces and aims to stitch his wounds back together. Or, at least, the wounds that prevent him from holding the guns.

  These wounds aren’t real, he tells himself.

  These saws aren’t real.

  The pain, though.

  The pain is real.

  Grinds his teeth and wills the tissue to reattach.

  Mark’s facedown on the dirty subway floor.

  Tries hard to rise.

  Fails.

  Flops.

  Wings flutter.

  Do-Better steps over him, elegantly, lifting her bare feet with the grace of a dancer. Walks down the car toward Simon, who’s still sitting against the bench of seats. Blood-soaked. Sweating. Snarling.

  Trying to stitch those grievous wounds.

  She stands over him. Lingers. In her black suit, she looks like a funeral director. The most elegant funeral director you’ve ever seen. Everything about her just-so. The well-cut hair. The well-cut suit.

  The saw blades.

  Well cut.

  A figure of surgical precision.

  Simon marvels at her, actually, at the same time as he realizes he’s starting to black out. From the exertion of the wound-stitching.

  Fuck these wounds, he decides. Let them bleed.

  He’s suffered worse.

  Survived worse.

  Grimaces as he thinks this. Edges of his vision fading to black.

  Do-Better just stands over him, watching him, head cocked. With great interest.

  Like lots of hunters, she likes to come in close to observe the final moments.

  Then she holds up one last saw blade.

  You won’t die, Simon. You know that, right? You of all people should know that.

  She spins the lone silver blade on the tip of her finger until it sings like an instrument.

  But I can make sure this experience is one you remember for a good long time.

  She stills the blade from spinning. Holds it out for him to see. It shines like a lucky coin.

  Says with a smile.

  Bye-bye, Simon.

  Sitting splay-legged, Simon lifts a handcannon, the long revolver looking comically clumsy, like a cartoon gun smithed for Yosemite Sam. Barrel droops. Do-Better only watches, curious to see what he thinks he’s going to do next.

  He doesn’t even bother trying to aim it in her direction. It’s bad enough trying to heft it. Barrel just points off randomly toward the end of the car. Toward nothing. Well, toward Lesser, maybe, in some farther car, some future car, at the far end of the train, the last car, the end of the line, the person they both came here to rescue, the person they were supposed to save.


  All of this for some fat-shit hopper, Simon thinks. No, not just that. You have to get back. Back to your family. Back to your church. Take back what’s yours. Can’t bleed out in a black room.

  Thankfully, Simon’s got one last trick to try.

  One last thing he’d worked out with Mina. Beforehand. Just in case. As a fail-safe.

  Hopes Mina remembers.

  And hopes she can actually pull it off.

  And really hopes she doesn’t hold that scar against him.

  Simon looks up at Do-Better. His face drawn under his blood-speckled beard. Eyes bloodshot. Rimmed red.

  Do-Better smiles.

  It’s a shame, Simon. Strong brute like you. Handsome too. Different circumstances, we could have been an item.

  I don’t think so.

  Why’s that?

  I’m a family man now.

  And with that, he screams with everything he has left in his lungs. Screams a name.

  Mina!

  Then pulls the trigger.

  Barrel booms.

  Fires wide.

  Hits nothing.

  But it wasn’t meant to.

  Leaves a gaping hole in a plastic seatback.

  Just a distraction. Designed to turn Do-Better’s head for a moment. Fluster her. Just for a moment. Which it does.

  She looks back to where the shot sailed wide.

  Shrugs.

  Well, I don’t see—

  Turns back to him.

  Simon’s gone.

  35.

  Two minutes, sir.

  Bellarmine nods absentmindedly, without looking up from his handheld, then goes back to the message he’s typing.

  Fat, clumsy thumbs. Tapping something. Texting someone.

  The temporary tent they’re all beneath flaps sharply in a strong wind that swirls up off the river. An unsecured flap sounds a loud snap, like a whip crack. Bellarmine looks up again from his handheld. Not startled. Just alert. Then goes back to texting.

  Two guards flank him.

  One woman, one man.

  Both in police dress uniform. Navy-blue coats fastened tight with gold buttons. Gold braiding at the shoulders. Crisp hats. Sunglasses.

  The male guard raises his arm to check the time.

  Shakes his wrist to free his watch from under his stiff coat sleeve.

  Above his wrist, a sliver of skin becomes visible.

  Peek of ink.

  Tip of a tattoo.

  Snakes and flames.

  Watch checked, he pulls the sleeve back down, then says.

  Ready?

  Bellarmine grunts, nods, eyes still on the handheld.