People Park (42 page)

At the northern shore the mob arrives just as the boats are coming around the corner by the Whitehall Piers. Their engines rape the air.

Everyone in position, screams Isabella. (She’s explained everyone’s positions along the way through a system of pass-it-along. Simple.)

Maybe a third of the people march out to the clifftops and stand there in a nude line with their guns trained on the Narrows to the west and the approaching invasion, another third scamper up behind them as reinforcements, and a third contingent gambol onto the bridge like a train of ants wandering out onto an island flat that has been folded and laid over a small stream in the manner of a bridge.

Isabella and Gregory Eternity climb to the top of the Thunder Wheel. She starts screaming at everyone through a megaphone. He abides at her side, trying to look proud.

Out on the bridge the people are ready. Yet one weird woman is apart from everyone else. She climbs down under the bridge. She walks out on a trestle. She has no gun. She just stands there, facing west, pale and naked, and the wind tussles her hair like a drunk uncle’s hand, though benign, into a mess of black scraggles.

The boats are fast approaching. The air fills with the clacking clamour of a bunch of guns cocked fast. But the woman apart from everyone doesn’t move. She seems oblivious to everything: to the invaders, to Gregory Eternity trying to get a U-
nique!
chant going, clapping his hands like someone’s too-keen, embarrassing dad, oblivious to her fellow citizens poised to kill, to the world and all that is in it.

GOOD LOOKIN OUT,
Bean, said Griggs, and clicked his radio off.

From the top of the Thunder Wheel the view was astounding.
The lake nibbled its way inland. The streets in the eastend’s far
thest
reaches had become a grid of black water from which
houses and trees struggled, and upon these impromptu canals
residents of Fort Stone and Bebrog and Li’l Browntown and
Greenwood Gardens boated and swam and waded inland toward People Park.

The westend too was a swamp. From Lowell Canal ribbons of green sludge threaded into
LOT
and
UOT
. Residents who hadn’t joined the exodus surveyed this warily from upper-storey windows and roofs and the top of the Dredge Niteclub. Only the Mews, swelling bubblelike from the island’s southeast corner, remained, for now, dry.

As from the east so from the west, people were escaping to People Park — great convoys of them on foot, grimly splashing through the water, in and upon various watercraft (rowboats, surfboards, planks) they fled the Zone. Meanwhile, the protest/parade had reached Topside Drive, discovered it flooded, and disbanded — some people had relocated to the common, others milled aimlessly around downtown.

Yikes, said Wagstaffe, lowering his camera.

Too late to sandbag it, said Griggs. Once people are downtown it should be fine but —

Wait, said Magurk, what do you mean
should
?

Look at the water, said Wagstaffe. It’s still coming up. Look!

I’ll take your word for it
. . .
Lucal.

Whoa, who are you calling
Lucal
? I’m sorry, things go a little wonky and suddenly we forget protocol? What is this,
How We DON’T Do
? What if — he swung the camera at Magurk — we were actually broadcasting?

But Magurk had gone quiet: all this commotion had got the Thundercloud rocking and creaking, he gripped his harness, face as pale as paper.

Griggs spoke into his radio: Walters and Reed, any word on Favours?

No sign of him.

Good lookin out, sighed Griggs. He eyed Magurk, then Wagstaffe. Guys, he sighed, please, remember the fourth pillar. Try to maintain decorum.

Wagstaffe trained the camera west, zoomed in on Laing Towers, where a few dozen residents congregated, safe for now, the water six floors below.

They’re spelling something, he said. With the letters from the building sign.

What does it say? said Griggs.

WE
. . .
ARE
— but just a letter
R
. . .
wait
. . .
wait. Oh.

Oh, what? said Magurk.
WE R O
?

No, that’s it. Just
WE R.
They don’t have the letters to spell anything else.

Laing Towers, Laing Towers, said Magurk. They could write:
WE R LOST.

They’re not lost, sighed Griggs. They’re on their own roof.

How about:
WE R LOST AGIN
?
said Wagstaffe.
Misspelled, but still.

But if all they’re after is help, said Magurk, what the fug does it matter what their sign says? Don’t they just need to be noticed? I mean, they could write
WE R —
he paused, his lips moved, the other men waited. The wind blew gently. At last he spoke:
GOAT SIN
if they thought it was going to get them rescued.

Goat sin, yucked Wagstaffe. Is that what you’re up to at the Friendly Farm afterhours?

I swear, once we’re off this ride —

Enough! bellowed Griggs. Please. Would everyone just
shut up.
I’m sure Noodles too would appreciate a little silence.

But Noodles’ attention was turned skyward: a newscopter went puttering past, off to the westend, to video the helpless folks stranded atop their tenements.

AT LAST TRAIN 2306
entered Parkside West. After riding through so many vacated stations Debbie was stunned by the waiting crowds. Even at rush hour such a crush was rare. The doors opened, a Helper stepped into the far end of the car to instruct everyone how to board.

Debbie called, Can we get off first?

He looked at her in disbelief. How the fug did you get on here?

And then he was demanding to see her papers, so Debbie slid into the crowd and, with Rupe and Cora trailing her, carved a path across the platform, singsonging, Excuse me, excuse me, feeling like an enemy of the world. Quickly, she lost sight of her co-passengers amid the bodies closing in and pushing past and draining into the train. Who were these people, she wondered, where were they all going?

At streetlevel she waited for Cora and her son. No one came down. The parade had dwindled, stragglers drifted about, with nowhere better to go they descended the Slipway into the park. Up top, the train heaved out of the station. And still no sign of Rupe and Cora. Debbie climbed the escalator: the platform was empty. South along the tracks, the evacuation passed through City Centre Station, picked up speed around the bend toward Bay Junction and the drowned south shore, and disappeared. Debbie was deserted trackside. Across the street, the lights of Cinecity’s marquee flashed and twirled.

FROM THE FLOOD
beneath Upper Olde Towne Station the Hand and the twins scrambled up the scaffolding into the half-renovated platform, climbed over great coils of cable and stacked girders onto the tracks, swung underneath and hung there digging drills and electric screwdrivers from pilfered toolbelts. Motors whirred and the process began of grinding out screws and rivets, each one crusted with rust and hardened paint. They worked in purposeful silence and only when the first of the huge lugnuts wriggled loose and tumbled down to the flooded street, landing with a plop in the black water, was there a hoot of triumph, before they went back to work.

WITH RAVEN’S
Grammar
tucked under an arm Pearl waded down to the bottom of Mustela Boulevard, followed people hopping the turnstiles, climbed the dead escalator to the platform, and joined the waiting crowd at 72 Steps Station. The atmosphere was tense, the air clammy and thick. Everyone seemed to exist inside a column of solitude, even family members seemed somehow estranged from one another, the lakewater slapped at the station’s struts below.

Eking out elbow room, Pearl opened the
Grammar
and exam
ined its Table of Situations. The chapters were titled arcanely
— Supplication, Daring Enterprise, The Enigma. Where to begin? Only Disaster seemed relevant, but all she wanted was to find Gip, not solve the whole city’s problems. Even if she could.

Train, called a voice from the far end of the platform — echoed, Train! — and the mood lightened, hope bloomed. The platform
rumbled, a galloping sound came from the east. Someone hollered,
We’re saved! and everyone cheered.

Turning to face her, an old man shot Pearl a gaptoothed grin. Been waiting here forever, he said. Didn’t think we were ever going to get out. I’ve got the ground floor at E and 9, totally underwater when I left it. But as you can see — gently he knocked his cane against Pearl’s leg — I’m not exactly fit to walk all the way across town.

The whole westend is flooded? said Pearl.

Flooded? Missy, I’ve
seen
flooding! This isn’t flooding. Sinking’s what we’re doing. The man winked. Get out while you can!

Sinking? What’s sinking? The island is sinking?

Look, he smiled, twirling his cane, here’s the train!

A clatter as it neared. When the movator didn’t come to life, people stepped into the bevelled warning area. But the lead car reached the end of the platform and failed to stop. One by one, each car flashed by, close enough to touch, packed with people, the faces of men and women and children inside mirrored Pearl’s astonishment —
What are you doing there?
— until finally the train slipped off to Budai Beach.

Not again, said someone.

What now?

I’ve been here twenty minutes! Nothing’s stopping either way!

It’s not like the trains aren’t running.

I mean, was that a train?