Broken (11 page)

Little by little, the refugees dropped away, herded into camps by newly arrived Confederation soldiers and local Black Bands. Each time the soldiers or the thugs who looked like soldiers beckoned, Michael, Monica, and Broken walked on. No one stopped them.

They passed the Bush Tunnel, which ran under the Tappan Zee. The entrances were guarded by Black Bands in armored vehicles. They kept walking. There were other bridges, other tunnels.

Ian was crying, but they had little food to give him. Monica mashed up some bread and watered it down; he could swallow this, but he obviously didn’t like it. He was much harder to carry, by now; he had gained a good deal of weight under Jane's care.

From time to time, they saw flights of hundreds of small flying craft—flitters, fighters, and wingers, all heading for the city. They had come far enough not to be able to hear the dull thud of explosions, or the sharp staccato of gunfire.

"I wonder," Monica said. "I wonder what will happen tomorrow?"
"Who knows?" Michael said with a shrug.

She looked sharply at him. "Aren’t you supposed to know the future? That's what Janeane said. That's what you told us. Can’t you just
tell
me what’s going to happen?"

He shook his head. "No, sorry. It doesn’t really work that way." He took a deep breath. "What I do, is I look at someone’s face. I have to look directly, or it doesn’t work. That’s why I look down a lot."

"I hadn’t noticed," Monica said.

"Well, I do," said Michael, a little chagrined. "I don’t want to see everything that’s going to happen to everybody."

"Why not?" Monica asked. "Aren’t you curious?"

"Go crazy," Broken snorted.

Michael nodded. "Yeah. Go crazy."

"Knew a guy," Broken said. "He could read minds. Didn’t take nothin’ to look and see what was on someone’s mind. Had to try hard to keep thoughts
out
. Told me people think about sick things, all the time, every day. Everybody’s crazy, he said. But who knows? Just him."

"What happened to him?" Monica asked.

"Went to a colony," Broken said. "Bought a thousand acres of desert somewhere. Don’t know which planet. Said he wanted to get away from everybody."

"Can’t blame him," Michael said.

"Is it like that for you?" Monica asked.

"It’s a little like that, but not quite so bad. There’s so much information. I have to try and sort it out. When I look at someone, I see their possible futures."

"So you
can
see what will happen tomorrow," Monica said.

"Not exactly," Michael admitted. "I see glimpses. Images. I don’t see everything. I usually don’t get surroundings or dates, just flashes. And it's not what
will
happen, just what
could.
At least that's how I understand it."

"Sucks," Broken said. "I used to fly. That’s more fun."

[CHAPTER 11]

T
he sun crept upwards, then began slipping down the sky’s broad inner curve again. They had covered too many miles to count. Michael’s feet were killing him. There were far fewer refugees on the road here; they had somehow veered off the main track, and onto a side road.

Now they were right by the river. Trees blossomed from the brown-red husks of ancient buildings; here and there an intact house glowed with electric life. But most houses along the road were long since abandoned. The forests of old New York were reclaiming what man had stolen.

"There used to be more people," Broken said. "But they all either died in the war or went to a colony." She remembered Sky Ranger telling her that. He seemed very sad when he said it. She never understood why. Weren’t the people on the colonies better off? And the people who were dead didn’t feel anything at all.

"Joe said that Americans didn’t want to be in their country anymore after we—they—lost the Last War," Michael said thoughtfully. "It was a sin to be an American. Joe said that we—Americans—used to be very proud."

"Who was Joe?" asked Monica.

"A friend of my father," said Michael. "He raised me, mostly."

Broken didn’t remember her father. Had she ever had one? Yes, she must have. She wondered what he had looked like. Somehow, she kept seeing Sky Ranger—not the one who flew above New York now (don’t think about what he’s doing, she told herself firmly)—but the old one. The one she had known as a little girl; the old man Sky Ranger inherited his title from. She’d met him when the Union first took her in.

Before that point… she had no memories at all save one.

* * *

There was endless water all around her. No… behind her was soft sand, sharp rocks. Further out, mighty walls of water crashed into the continent. She looked down into the salty water of the tidepool. A strange face waved and jumped atop the shifting sea. Behind it, something small scuttled past.

She reached in to pluck it out, but it caught her and pulled with all its might.

"_____!" she called. (Who could she be calling to?)

But no one came. The thing pulled again, and she disappeared underwater.

"Now," said the beast, "you belong to me." It had a thousand tentacles, and one giant mouth.

She screamed.

* * *

Michael and Monica stared at her.

"B?" Monica held a hand out. "Are you okay?"

Broken nodded. She was on her back, lying in the road.

She needed to stop remembering. She could do that. She needed a drink.

* * *

A light snow began to fall as night blanketed the empty land. All four of them shivered—even Ian, wrapped snugly in his blanket, quivered  and wailed mournfully.

"We need to find shelter," Michael said, looking at Monica and Broken. "This is going to be a big storm. We don’t want to be caught in it."

"You predict that?" Monica asked.

"Yes," Michael said. "Just now, looking at you."

But no places of shelter made themselves apparent.

"Keep walking," Michael said grimly. "Keep walking."

Monica snapped,"You predict
that
? Did you predict a place to get out of the snow? You predict anything
useful
?"

"Shut up," Michael growled. They walked faster, despite their aching feet.

Then, below, on the riverbank, they saw a swaying light. Michael could vaguely make out the shape of a man standing by it. It was a boat; the man stood on a short dock, untying it.

Michael was too far away to get a good read. He took the chance anyway. He was cold, and getting a little desperate. "Hey!" he yelled, waving his hands. "Hey!"

"What are you—?" Monica had time to ask before Michael broke into a run.

"Wait!" Michael called. "Please, wait!"

The man would never wait. Who would trust a stranger these days? There was a war going on in the city. Thugs in black uniforms patrolled the streets. Refugees lived like animals, and treated everyone else the same way.

But the man stopped and looked up.

"Wait, please!" Michael shouted again, skidding down the embankment. Monica and Broken waited with Ian on the high road.

Now he’ll go. Now he’ll cast off, and we’ll be stuck here, Michael thought. Now. Now.
Now.

He could have. The flickers of possibility Michael got from him suggested that he still might. But the man stayed put, patiently waiting for Michael to run up to him. "Wait, please. Please take us across. We have a baby."

"Take you across?" The man scratched his chin. "Hm. How many?"

"Four, including the baby," Michael said. "We have nowhere to go. We came from the city. Our house was burned."

The man’s expression softened. "Come on, then," he said.

Michael beckoned. Monica had to help a suddenly reluctant Broken down the slope, while Michael rushed back to take Ian. They clambered into the wooden boat, and the old man untied the rope and shoved off from the dock. The boat glided smoothly out into the river.

"There’s no motor," Monica said.

The old man grinned. "Boats aren’t allowed on the river unless you have a pass and a license and some other such. But they don’t see me if I don’t use any power but my own." He picked up an oar and handed it to Michael. "Help me out, son," he said. Michael took it and sat next to him on the bench. "I don’t usually have passengers, but put two at the oars and we go faster. We go on three. One-two-
three
. Like that. Put your oar in straight, and pull straight back. Got it?"

Michael nodded, not sure that he did.

 "All right. Let me get us on the right track." The man put his oar in the water and pulled. The boat swung around to the right. They were facing the shore they had come from. The prow of the boat faced the far shore. "Okay, son, one-two-
three
. One-two-
three
."

Michael put his oar in and did his best to keep up. He tried to dip his oar in straight and pull straight back, as he'd been instructed. He didn’t do it right at first, but got the hang of it about halfway through. Thankfully, the old man was very tolerant.

"Ever pulled an oar?" he asked as they worked. Michael shook his head. "Too bad. It’s good for you. Put some muscle on you! People now never even think of it. Two-
three
. Good, you’re getting it down!"

The old man didn’t ask them any questions as they glided across the river. It was eerily peaceful. The only sound came from the
thunk-splish
of the oars. Snow fell lightly all around them as evening deepened into night. Even Broken seemed transfixed by the silence. Michael’s muscles ached, his back was sore, but he found himself hoping the trip would never end.

Eventually, though, they pulled up to a dock on the other side of the river; the current had pulled them far to the south, which seemed to be just fine with the old man. He leapt out onto the dock with astonishing spryness for his age and the amount of work he’d just done—Michael certainly didn’t feel like jumping out of the boat. "Toss the rope," he ordered Michael, who found it and threw it to the old man. "Now let’s get indoors."

It took them a moment to realize he was offering them the hospitality of his home. Michael was too tired to refuse, too tired to even check  possible futures. They trudged wearily up a hill towards an old two-story house, almost certainly built long before the Last War. The porch light was lit invitingly, and the house was blessedly warm inside.

"Mary Ann!" he called. "Mary Ann, I’m back!"

A plump old woman, her face framed by a halo of white hair, peered from out of the kitchen. "Who are these?"

"Refugees from the city," he said.

She made a face and sighed. "All right. You can’t help yourself. I’ll make some more dinner."

"They can have mine," said the old man. "And yours, too. I’ll cook us up some beans."

"But Will!"

He whispered something to her, and her expression changed. She looked down at the floor, then back up at Michael and his companions. "I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. Of course you’re welcome. Please sit. I’ve made a meat stew."

Broken was looking all around the house, smelling the unfamiliar smells and running her hands over the wooden banister and table. "This place is so beautiful," she said. "Have I been here before?"

The woman put steaming hot stew into three bowls on the table. She took Ian, rocking him in her arms.

Michael sat. "Thank you very much," he said, trying to be as polite as he could. "You didn’t have to help us—"

"Of course we did," the woman—Mary Ann—said. "In ’46, we were on the road, too. We were kids then, of course. But the Chinese and the Europeans bombed our town, then sent their soldiers. We had to run."

"It was just the Europeans bombed," said the man. Will.

"Right, right. But some of the soldiers were Chinese," said Mary Ann. "This was east of here, in Connecticut. So we know what it’s like."

"How’s New York?" asked the old man. "We don’t turn on the screen much."

"Let him eat," Mary Ann hushed him.

"No, I don’t mind," said Michael, and related some of what he knew and had heard about the city’s uprising and quick fall. "Our house was burned. Black Bands."

"Those dirty thugs," Mary Ann said sadly, shaking her head. "A neighbor of ours has a son with them. I never knew a crueler young man."

"Times are hard now," Will agreed. "And they’ll be hard for a while."

"Probably," said Michael, who knew.

"Thank you for the soup," Monica said timidly.

"You’re welcome, dear. And aren't you a pretty young thing! Such eyes. What’s your name?"

"I’m Monica," she said. "This is Michael and B."

"Bea," repeated Mary Ann. "Lovely name. I haven’t heard it in ages."