Glimmering (58 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Hand

BOOK: Glimmering
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There was a roar as a slab of burning fuselage crashed to the floor, and Larry’s voice echoed from behind smoke and leaping flame. “I’ll find you
, just GO!
”
Jack staggered toward the blaze. His mouth formed Larry’s name, but he could no longer think of anything but the smell of burning metal, burning flesh, the screams of a woman made of light lurching toward him—
“Jackie ! Goddammit,
Jackie
—”
A hand grabbed him and yanked him back. Through that infernal chiaroscuro he saw forms like great scorched insects staggering through the murk. Someone shoved him through smoking rubble, the heaped bricks of a fallen tenement. A video monitor opened onto the ocean’s calm blue eye, blinked into sparks and the stink of melting wires. Jack fell to his knees, gagging, was pulled to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried into a passage dense with smoke, walls radiating heat as though he stumbled through a furnace. He coughed, choking on poisonous fumes. Whoever had pulled him to safety was gone. There was only smoke and echoing screams, an airless passage funneling into darkness.
As though he had plunged from a cliff, that world fell away. Smoke faded into frigid air. The darkness broke into plumes of crimson and violet. Jack shivered uncontrollably and looked around, dazed, saw that he was outside, in the street. There were people everywhere, thousands of them, the roar of flames and myriad explosions; sirens, screams, shouted orders, and the hoot of bullhorns. He saw a line of blazing cars, and overhead a vast pinwheel of green and violet, smoke and flames roiled into its core. A figure shook him fiercely and began to push him through the crowd.
“Keep moving, Jackie, keep moving—”
He turned and saw Leonard Thrope.
“Leonard,” he choked. “What—”
“Shut up.” Leonard pulled Jack close, holding him so tightly it hurt. “Fuck, I hope they’re here . . .”
Leonard stopped, panting. His skin was dark with soot. His cheek had been ripped open; Jack could see a spur of bone beneath the blackened skin. Leonard turned his head, spit blood, and pointed down a side street. “They should be there. Come on—”
He began to run and Jack followed, gasping with pain. “Who?”
“My limo. I told them to wait for me—”
They ran to where the sidewalk ended in a vacant lot strewn with wrecked cars. On the other side of the lot a grey stretch limo was parked. A man stood by the driver’s door, his mouthless mask shoved onto his forehead as he punched frantically at a cellphone. Another figure crouched beside the passenger door, face buried in his hands.
“Leonard!” the first man shouted, as Leonard and Jack ran up. “What the—”
“They blew ’em up!” Leonard yelled. The figure on the ground looked up: a young man in an anorak, stringy blond hair falling to his shoulders. “What the fuck’d you think, Fayal? Here—”
Leonard flung the passenger door open and reached inside, pulled out camera bags, and tossed them into the street. He looked over his shoulder at his driver and pointed first at Jack, then at the young man. “Okay, listen, Fayal,” he commanded. “I want you to take them to Yonkers—”
“Yonkers!
The fuck I’m going to—”
“Just fucking do it!” Leonard thrust his hand into his leather jacket and withdrew a wallet. “Here,” he said, shoving a wad of bills at Fayal. “That’s for you. You’ve done a great job, now you’re fired. Take the car, take it and go—it’s yours, go wherever you want! Just take them first—”
The chauffeur shoved the phone into his pocket. He stared at the cash, took it, and stuffed it into his coat. “Shit. Where in Yonkers?”
Leonard cocked his thumb at Jack. “He’ll give you directions. But go,
now
—”
He grabbed Jack by the shoulder and pushed him toward the car, then snapped something at the blond boy. The boy just sat there. Leonard dragged him to his feet. “Get in the fucking car! No—in the front, with Fayal. Now listen to me, Trip—”
Leonard pointed at Jack. “He’s bleeding. Find something to tie off his hand with, your sock or something, and then just sit tight till you get to Lazyland. There’s a doctor there who can help.”
“
Doctor
?”
the boy repeated. “What do you mean, a—”
Leonard pushed him roughly. “Just get in the fucking car
,
Trip.” Leonard turned to Jack. “Okay, now listen, Jackie.”
Leonard grasped his friend’s upper arm and guided him to the middle seat, pulled a soiled bandanna from his leather jacket, and gave it to Jack. “Wrap this around your wrist. Trip! For Christ’s sake, find something for his hand!” he shouted angrily, then perched on the seat beside Jack.
“Now listen, Jackie. You know Fayal. He’s going to take you to Lazyland, okay? He’s going to take you home. Emma’s there, she can help you. You’ll be okay, Jackie. You hear me?” He shook him gently. “You’re gonna be okay.”
“What about you?” Jack whispered. It hurt to talk. Jack’s tongue probed at his lips, the inside of his mouth, and found blisters, scorched skin. “Leonard? Where’re you going?”
Leonard’s hand remained on Jack’s shoulder. He turned to look back, to where buildings like molten gems blazed against a churning violet sky. Above them pulsed a mountain of light, so brilliant Leonard shielded his eyes.
The Pyramid was in flames. Very slowly, the structure’s apex bulged outward, like an ampoule giving way. With a deafening roar it burst into an enveloping cloud of black and scarlet.
“Holy shit,” breathed Fayal, ducking into the front seat.
“Right,” said Leonard. He reached out onto the sidewalk, pulled open one of his leather satchels. There was a videocam inside. He slid the strap over his head, clicked the camera on and off a few times, playing with the focus.
“Leonard?” Jack demanded. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“Coming with you? What, to Lazyland?” With a grin Leonard turned the camera on Jack. Sirens wailed behind them; there was the clatter of gunfire. “No, Jackie.”
“But you have to, Leonard—you can’t stay here—”
Leonard whipped the camera from his face and began to laugh. “Are you kidding?” he yelled gleefully, sweeping his arm out to take in boiling sky, flames flickering across buildings, the rain of ash that had started to fall. “
Leave?
And miss all
this
? No can do, Jackie-boy! Not for anything on earth—”
He grabbed Jack’s hand. “Oh, Jackie—I have loved you, in my fashion. You know that, right?” Jack nodded. “Okay. So you go on back to Grandmother’s house, and I’ll hang out at this swinging party.”
Leonard stretched his legs out onto the sidewalk, chains jingling. As he turned to leave, Jack touched him on the arm.
“Leonard—” His blue eyes met Leonard’s manic gaze. “Will I—will I ever see you again?”
Leonard grinned. “Will you
see
me? Sure, Jackie—you’ll see me again, we’ll see everybody again, real soon.” He stood on the sidewalk, vidcam nestled within the folds of his leather jacket. Unexpectedly, he leaned down, his eyes filled with tears. He let one hand rest upon his friend’s cheek, and kissed Jack on the mouth. “I promise.”
Jack gazed up at him. For a fraction of a second he saw them both there, the man who had saved him and the boy he had loved a hundred years ago, standing in a rain of fiery ash.
But before he could say anything, Leonard danced back from the limo and closed the door. He tapped on the driver’s window and shouted, “Get him home, Fayal, got me? You take care of him, Trip! Do your fucking Christian duty, okay?”
In the front seat the blond boy nodded.
“Fucking idiot,” muttered Leonard Thrope.
Jack stared out his window as the limo’s engine thrummed to life. “See you in the funny papers, Jackie-boy!” Leonard yelled. With a whoop he drew the vidcam to his eye. From behind the limo’s darkened glass two white faces gazed at him, bright flecks trapped in the lens and almost indistinguishable from the fluttering ash falling everywhere. The cam’s motor hummed as the recorded image flickered on the tiny monitor, dusted with electronic snow.
The limousine began to drive away. As it did, Leonard stepped backward, his camera fixed on the car, heedless of nearby gunfire and smoke billowing from burning buildings. He moved deftly from the sidewalk into the middle of the shattered street, not feeling where embers gnawed through the soles of his boots or noticing the scent of his own scorched hair as he tracked those two faces staring at him from the car, recording them through the scrim of ash and video noise, the two of them growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared into the cloud of moving particles, flesh and flames and falling sky all exactly where Leonard wanted them.
And Leonard himself exactly where he had always wanted to be: dancing in the century’s graveyard, laughing at the end of all things.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 
Glimmering
It took them six hours to get to Lazyland. Trip tore a piece of fabric from his anorak and handed it to Jack. Jack wrapped his wounded hand, then slumped against his seat and fell into an exhausted stupor lanced with pain. Now and then he heard shouts from outside, Fayal’s curses and pleas for divine guidance, the sound of other vehicles, police sirens, ambulances. The boy in the front seat said nothing, and Jack made no effort to speak to him; only offered directions to Fayal when after hours they finally passed Co-op City, the limo edging through the mass of cars like a queen bee making her way through a broken hive. When Jack peered out the window behind them, he saw a city in flames: smoke rising from skyscrapers, flickers of gold and scarlet leaping from shadowy canyons and avenues. Fires burned along the George Washington Bridge. On the western banks of the Hudson he could see more blazes. The air inside the limo was acrid with the scent of burning.
At last they broached the outskirts of the city of Yonkers. They drove past crowds of people, revelers and rioters who moved reluctantly to let the limo pass. Bottles crashed against the hood, rocks bounced off the roof, and once Jack dived to the floor when Fayal yelled at him, and automatic weapons-fire echoed in the street outside. The car plunged through a sea of bodies. Jack heard a sickening thump, but Fayal just kept on going, until at last they were bouncing down familiar rutted streets, past Delmonico’s and the ruins of Hudson Terrace, past gutted mansions where Jack could see figures capering beneath a sky like an open wound.
“This is it,” he said hoarsely. He pointed to his home’s security gate. The limo nosed through, eased down the driveway, finally came to a stop in front of the wide veranda.
“You guys—out fast, okay?” said Fayal. “I’m gonna piss and get the fuck out of here.”
Jack opened the door and stumbled onto the drive. He blinked in the glare of—what? Morning? Dawn? When he glanced at his watch it said almost six.
“Jack!”
He turned and was nearly knocked down by Emma. “Oh, Jack,” she murmured, hugging him. Behind her he could see his brother Dennis, his mouth an O of anguished relief. “Jack, I thought you were—we all thought—”
Emma drew back to look at him. “Holy shit. You’re bleeding! Get inside, come on—”
“Wait.” Jack looked to where Fayal was zipping up his trousers and sliding back behind the wheel. “There’s someone else.”
The blond boy stepped from the car. He moved away as the engine gunned, and in a spray of gravel the limo shot back up the drive. With a desultory roar it turned out onto Hudson Terrace and disappeared from sight.
“Who is he?” Emma demanded.
“I have no idea. A friend of Leonard’s, I think.”
“A friend of—” Emma scowled. “Jesus Christ. Well, tell him to get inside.”
She looked at Jack’s injured wrist as she steered him toward the porch. “I have to tell you, Jackie,” she said in a low voice, and began to cough. “I hope your friend can take care of himself. I’m not feeling that well, I don’t know what it is.”
They walked inside. Jack turned, saw the blond boy gazing up at the mansion’s crumbling exterior, and beyond it the venomous sky.
“Hey,” Jack called. “Move it, let’s go.”
The boy nodded and followed him inside.
The house was dark. Jack’s brother cleared his throat. He was eight years older than Jack; in the months since he’d visited Jack in the hospital, Dennis’s hair had gone white. His face was gaunt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes. He squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “I’m—I’m glad you’re okay. I’m going to lie down—it’s been tough, Jackie.”
“Where’s Grandmother?”
“Upstairs. She’s all right. She’s sleeping. But—well, Emma will tell you. I’ll talk to you in a little while.”
Jack turned to Emma. “What happened? Is she really okay? Where’s Marz?”
Emma said nothing. Her face was grey with fatigue, blotched with small raised spots. She smoothed a hand across her head, the blond curls dank and flattened. “She’s dead, Jack,” she said. “She went into labor yesterday morning—”
“Oh Christ—”
“There wasn’t anything I could do.” She began to cry. Jack drew her to his breast, holding his injured hand out stiffly behind her. “She—it was twins. A boy and a girl. It would have been hard no matter what, she was so young, she was malnourished—”

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