City of Savages (16 page)

As the soldiers approached, our crowd blinded them with the last of our light, then converged on them like a swarm of hungry roaches. Jumping them, beating them senseless. One, two shots went off. We lost another survivor and then another from the shots.

But the soldiers were dead, and there was cause for celebration.

We now have uniforms, and guns.

A young orphan, Lory, and her little toddler shadow, Cass, immediately started playing with the guns—the hand-me-down toys of this lost next generation. But Mary yanked the weapons away from them. Then she dislodged the bullets, put them into her pocket, and addressed the crowd.

“Like everything,” Mary said, “we ration.”

I don’t understand how she’s doing it, how she’s managing to lead us and stay so calm, so strong. But I’m proud of her.

June 5—New York has settled into summer, and the heat has invited itself into the tunnels, pushed its way down here to make us all that much more uncomfortable. Sweat is a constant, above my lip, on my forehead and back, paints me with my own clothing, until by night I’m mummified.

But I barely have to lift a finger. Mary always makes sure Sky and I are fed first, holds my hand
through the pain, sleeps by my side in case Sky and
I start crying in the night. We’ve become a ragtag family, a patchwork quilt of the scraps of who we were before. And though I’m grateful for Mary,
beyond belief, it’s not enough. My need to see Tom, to
know he’s okay, has begun to plague me like a fever.

“Where is he? Where could he and Robert be?”

“We’ve been over this a hundred times, Sarah.” Mary shook her head under the soft candlelight, and odd shadows were thrown against the dank tunnel walls. “You said they were working at the studio. But Chelsea’s a wreck—the Piers have been blown to pieces.”

I didn’t let myself process that. “Tom and Robert could’ve been on the subways, like us—trapped on the 1 or 2 lines.”

“You know we’ve been over there, and nothing. If they’re alive, they’ve moved on by now. We can’t chase ghosts, Sarah. Look at this group, the number of people. Every one of them has someone missing. There’re far, far too many ghosts to chase.” She dropped her voice to a low whisper, so that those sleeping nearby couldn’t hear us. “Right now, you and I, we’re in a good position. We’re in charge. But it’s so fragile, can’t you see that? We need to think of the group. I don’t want to give anyone reason to question my priorities.”

She used “me” and “we” interchangeably, and for some reason, it unexpectedly warmed me.

“Just promise me, when we can, we’ll look for them again,” I whispered.

“Of course.”

July 4—Independence Day. But the sounds above weren’t fireworks. They were air raids. Land raids. Bombs.

We’ve been trapped under here for four months. I can’t believe there are still so many of us left, over a hundred wandering the tunnels as a unit. Scavenging the surface, hunting rats, sharing water, and swapping food and supplies. Mary has kept us alive.

There’ve been dissensions, of course. Small fights and brawls. Two or three people, usually the younger ones, who think they have a better answer, who curse Mary and disappear into the tunnels to fend for themselves. Or the ones who work her from the inside, the fragile ones like Bronwyn, who fear everything, who question everyone, who still wait for someone to save us.

But in general, we’ve become a well-oiled machine that hums along steadily in the dark. I try to be a cog, do my part, not ask questions. Though sometimes the old me bubbles to the surface, and I cry and I scream and I’m so angry I can’t see.

“Lie down,” Mary often says. “You need to think about that baby.”

I can’t believe I’m bringing another person into this world.

August 4 (or 5)—I’ve started to lose count of the days. The heat arrested all of us, and we lay around on the tracks just trying to breathe, a thick swamp of survivors.

Mary and I were next to each other, with Sky between us, sharing a jug of water.

Mary had her hand on my belly and was stroking it, carefully, cautiously. And I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I did.

“Are you ever going to try again?” I whispered. “I mean if, when, we ever get out of here.”

“No.”

Mary was quiet for a long time. Then she told me that after her third miscarriage, Jim told her that she must be doing something wrong. “That on some level,” she said softly, “I must not want it badly enough.”

Her breathing was heavy, loaded.

“Mary.”

“Jim was drunk. But I knew he meant it,” she said. “He never loved me. Not in the way I needed, anyway. I know that now.”

I rarely saw her soft underbelly anymore, and it scared me. She’d become our fearless leader, our resourceful commander in the dark.

She grabbed my hand. “Being down here with you, it’s awakened something inside me. Like my whole life I was supposed to be someone else.”

I thought about what she said. It wasn’t news. I knew, for a long time, how unhappy Mary was.

“Do you ever think things happen for a reason?” she whispered again. “That we’re given second chances?”

Her words were full and promising, almost visible against the dark. They floated towards me like those soft dandelions on my parents’ farm in Iowa. The ones we’d blow on to make wishes.

I couldn’t see Mary’s face, but somehow I could sense her tears, could tell that she was inches from me, with Sky and my stomach pressed between us.

Then I felt the softest of pressure against my lips, and I sighed. It felt wrong and yet so wonderfully right. The tunnels faded away, as did the thick moat of bodies lying around me. And the only thing that ran through my mind was, I knew this was coming. And I wanted it. I couldn’t do this without her.

Tom, please, if you’re out there . . . If it’s possible—forgive me.

I can’t believe what I’ve just read. My face, my hands, my whole
body
is on fire, yet I force myself back over the flames and reread the last passage:

. . . against my lips . . . I sighed . . . I wanted it.

Mom cheated on Dad. With his
sister
, no less—Mom
cheated
on Dad.

I knew this book would contain secrets, things that might change how I see my mom, her world, her place in it—but not this. A twisted knot of anger lodges itself right in my throat, and no matter how I try to sugarcoat what I’ve discovered, I can’t swallow it. How could Mom have done this?

And how can I
ever
see her the same way again?

I want to talk to her. I want her to explain this away and show me how this was possible. No, how it was
right
. These pages couldn’t have captured everything. There has to be an explanation.

But I know I can’t go to her, not now, not when I’m in the trenches of her past. Not when I’m peering in judgment over its casualties.

Besides, at this point, I’m covered in lies and deceit myself.

I take a deep breath and do the only thing I can do.

I keep reading.

September—There’s no use pretending I know what day it is. It feels like September, in my belly, in my bones. That’s what we’re all whispering. That we survived the heat wave of August and lost only a handful. That we’ve got a few cool autumn months ahead. That we’re fortunate.

And in a small, bizarre, unfettered way, I do feel fortunate. Mary and I have become something. Something undefinable. Something we shouldn’t be, of course I know that. Am I falling in love with her? Is this love? Is this need? I’m not sure. When you inch through life as we’re inching, you’re desperate for something deep and grand. You cling to feelings like this, nurture and feed them, let them pull you up and out of yourself.

Sometimes at night we lie in the dark and hold each other. Sometimes . . . it’s more, and it feels as if the dark has stolen our borders and we’ve merged into each other.

When the sheen of immediacy dulls, when I think about Tom, about what I’m doing, the guilt drives me to madness. But a small, self-preserving voice inside me keeps whispering that I need this: Save yourself. Whatever it takes. Save yourself.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Oh my God!” I jump, bang my elbow against the windowsill, and glance up to find Ryder perched over me.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s my fault. I’m jumpy. Too wrapped up in this, I guess.” I quickly close the journal and wave
Charlotte’s Web
in front of him, then immediately wish I hadn’t. I curse myself for picking the spider over
Great Expectations
back in Mom’s old apartment. “What are you doing up?” I say, trying to divert his attention. I shove the journal back into my knapsack, trying to bury Mom’s words—
I sighed . . . I wanted it—
and chase her out of my head.

“I couldn’t sleep either.” Ryder takes a seat opposite me in front of the window. “I was sick a lot, on the boat ride over here. Guess I’ve gotten used to being up around the clock.”

He smiles at me, but it’s a sad smile, one that hides things I bet I’d like to know more about. But maybe I shouldn’t pry. “I know how that goes,” is all I say.

“What, getting sick on a boat?” he teases.

I laugh. “No, battling insomnia.” I look out the window for a moment, at the street below us frozen in time. “I hope I get the chance to be seasick, though,” I say, allowing the possibility of a world outside this city to warm me once more. “I hope we get out of here.”

He gives me a flash of that hollow smile again.

“I’m sorry,” I add. “About Lerner.”

“Thanks. I didn’t know him very well, though,” Ryder says. “He was my brother’s mate. Sam met him and Frank—the one who didn’t survive the zoo prisons—on his trek back from Dover.”

“Well . . . I’m sorry just the same.”

Ryder doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“Your mom was right.” He finally breaks our silence. “Sam and I couldn’t believe it. There’re . . .
monsters
on this island. The world has turned men into monsters.”

“Mom’s warned us about tunnel feeders since we were little,” I say slowly, “but I’d never seen one before today. That I remember, anyway.” I close my eyes and they appear again. The ravaged, hungry cannibals, loose packs of wolves roaming the dark, hunting us, hurting Phee. I try to shake off the images.

“What do you call the monster of the Park?” he says softly.

“Who? You mean Rolladin?”

Ryder nods, then leans in. The stark white sky catches his hazel eyes and turns them into gold. “What kind of monster can brainwash an entire island into thinking the war’s still going on?”

“Manhattan’s not brainwashed,” I say, snappier than I would’ve liked. I take a deep breath. Why am I getting so defensive about Manhattan? I sound like Phee or something. “I mean, you just don’t understand how it works here. Rolladin’s been our only window to the outside world for a long time. She’s run the Park since the island became an occupation zone and the Red Allies started withdrawing. People just don’t . . .
question
her. And even though she’s warden, the prisoners still think of her as one of their own. They’d never think she’d betray them.”

“But what happened to the whole American way?” he sputters. “Democracy? Checks and balances?”

I give a choked laugh, surprised that he knows anything about US history. He can’t be much older than I am.

“Well, we devolved into a monarchy,” I answer, testing the waters. “A true kingdom in the Park.”

He smiles again, this time wide and uncompromised, and I see that it’s a little off center—lopsided. Contagious. “I guess every country goes through its ‘Queen’ period.”

“Some longer than others.”

“Touché. But I don’t identify with Britain pre-Parliament,” Ryder says. “Or post-Parliament, for that matter. The country really went to pot when Parliament disbanded. I prefer fictional governments, mostly.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.
Atlas Shrugged
,
1984
—”

“
Animal Farm
,” I add, getting a little more excited.

“Oh,
Animal Farm
’s a classic.”

I can’t contain my enthusiasm when I ask, “So you really do read a lot?”

“Every book I can get my hands on.”

“Even textbooks?”

“I’m a textbook
junkie
,” he says.

And I just might have found my soul mate.

“Not just history,” I say, still not believing that this beautiful boy in front of me prefers to spend his time reading old textbooks from a forgotten world. “I’m talking biology, chemistry, physics—”

He stares at me straight-faced. “Prentice Hall is a god.”

And I can’t help but burst out laughing. “What do you do, scavenge libraries?”

“Universities, mostly. But I went to school for years before Britain bit the bullet. Almost graduated year eight and everything.”

“Year eight.” I match the grin he’s now wearing, and will my mind to keep working overtime, to pull out all the shreds of the past I’ve managed to stitch together from books and papers. I have this desperate need to show him what I know, even as the world forgets it. “Not quite high school, but you were clearly going places. Your parents must be so proud.”

I’m the slightest bit horrified when his eyes start watering. Sam and Ryder obviously came over here alone. Why did I just mention parents?

“Ryder, I’m sorry—God, I didn’t mean to say anything wrong.”

“Not your fault.” He turns away from me, towards the dusty pane. And my skin feels like it’s on fire, as if this is what I get for flying too close to the sun.