People Park (45 page)

IGNORING THE WATER
seeping now up to its edges, still more people headed down into the park. From the top of the Slipway Debbie surveyed the thousands gathered before the gazebo, assembling as they had for Raven’s arrival and illustration. A tepid Ra-
ven
chant rose and died listlessly. Gone was the anticipation, a muted dread hung heavy in the air, when they called his name it was only in vain and despairing attempts to summon him.

Up the Slipway a couple was dragging a paddleboat purloined from the boathouse, two kids in tow. They reached Parkside West, pushed it into the water, the kids got inside, while the man and woman rolled their pants to their knees. They looked like people Debbie might know, friends of friends, maybe they’d met at a potluck or some such thing. Her mind riffled through a catalogue of names and faces: nothing, they were no one she knew. Right now, it seemed she’d never known anyone.

Look at them, said the woman to her husband. Don’t they know he’s not coming?

He’s not coming! he hollered.

Another family turned and regarded this man bitterly, then kept heading down.

Fuggin appleheads, said the husband. As if this is magic, as if some clown in a sweatsuit can fix it with a wave of his whip. No one’s going to save you! This is
real
.

Hey, we can make room, said his wife, if you want to come across with us.

Debbie realized she was being spoken to. I’m sorry, she said. Across?

To the mainland.

The strangers’ faces were tired but kind.

You can’t stay here, said the husband. You’ve got to get out while you can.

This —
while you can
— was chilling: it inferred a time when Debbie, or anyone else, wouldn’t be able to
. . .

Thanks, she said, but I need to find someone first.

Godspeed, said the wife, and her family joined the brigade crossing the Narrows.

Though dusk was descending the streetlamps remained blankfaced — no power, no power anywhere in the city. The
NFLM
no longer seemed to be checking
ID
, in fact no Helpers were visible down in the park at all. Meanwhile the flood had discovered fissures in the Slipway and descended in thin dark gunnels, fed Crocker Pond, Debbie watched it bloat and threaten its banks
. . .

A hand settled on her shoulder, her heart skipped: such timing, it had to be Adine. But this woman looked haggard and shabby, grey wilted hair like the fronds of a dying plant. Debbie, said this person.

It was Pearl. Or some phantom of her, wild-eyed and waving a book. I have to get down there, I figured it out, it’s called trunking. Situation Ten: Abduction, Deb. That’s where Gip is. He trunked. That’s why he’s gone and —

Pearly? Sorry, I’m not following you. What’s going on?

I need to get down there, she said, gesturing anxiously at the gazebo.

Hey, I don’t know, it might make sense to try to leave —

No, not without Gip. I have to find him. She tapped the book’s cover. It’s all in here, Deb. It’s called trunking, I know how to do it now, I can find him
. . .
Her voice faded. My daughter’s gone, my husband’s gone, said Pearl. Gip’s all I’ve got left. I need to find him. What about you, Deb? Who are you looking for?

Debbie looked around wildly. All those nameless faces spilled grimly past. Wait, she said, focusing again on Pearl. What do you mean,
gone
?

Gone, gone, gone. She stepped into the water streaming heartily down the Slipway. Bye, Deb.

Dragging her bum leg along like a dead branch, Pearl disappeared into the swarm tumbling into the common from all sides, some with boxes and bags of belongings, most empty-handed, each face pasted with dazed grief that had yet to sink soulward. High above People Park circled a dozen newscopters shooting footage. Did their viewers wonder who all these people were? Debbie doubted it: this was likely only thrilling, a good show on
TV
.

IX

ROM MIDWAY
up the rope ladder Wagstaffe pointed his camera down at Griggs, who lingered stubbornly in the Thundercloud, flouting his harness sheared in half, walkie-talkie in hand. High above, Noodles was pulled aboard, then Magurk.

Wagstaffe hollered something lost in the helicopter’s roaring.

Griggs shook his head dolefully. Far below the Institute’s swimteam, in matching bathing caps and trunks, converged upon Reed’s skiff. Walters yanked the ripcord, the motor coughed but wouldn’t start, Reed took up the chainsaw with which he’d freed the
HG’
s and wielded it at the students closing in.

Wagstaffe gestured frantically:
Come on! Come on!

Again Griggs shook his head.

The chopper dipped, the ladder swung, Wagstaffe scrambled, caught himself but dropped the camera. It tumbled past Griggs, three hundred feet down, knocked the chainsaw from Reed’s hands, plopped into the water and sank. Reed cast an incredulous look at the sky, Griggs followed it: Wagstaffe and the ladder were pulled aboard, the hatch closed, and the helicopter lifted and wheeled away over the lake.

Back down below, the swimteam, emboldened, were once again on the offensive. Just as they seized upon the skiff its motor whined to life and the two men absconded into the Narrows. The swimmers treaded water in a sharky shoal. And their attention shifted to the top of the Wheel, at the lone figure sitting up there, safe and dry.

Griggs spoke into his radio: How are things going, Dack?

Lot
θ
of people up top of Laing Tower
θ
.
Θ
omeone’
θ
coming? We heard the ferry
θ
ank —

Sit tight, Dack, have faith. Someone will come. Remember: Silentium. Logica. Securitatem. Prudentia.
Griggs switched frequencies. Pea?

Pea here. Still waiting on the roof, water’s coming up
. . .
What’s this about the ferry?

Griggs repeated his advice, changed channels, checked in with
Bean — no signal. The common was an inky muck seething with
people, from all sides the water chugged steadily in. He changed channels, repeating the four pillars to himself, while the angry swimmers collected at the Thunder Wheel’s base.

Diamond-Wood answered: Yes?

And where are you?

With the Mayor.

And how’s she?

Diamond-Wood tapped the Mayor’s shoulder. How are you?

Fine, fine, she said, absently stroking her sash. Just watching everything go under.

It might be time to get out of there, said Griggs.

Yeah, said Diamond-Wood. What about you?

I’m the Head Scientist! I can’t leave
. . .
Griggs sighed. Besides, where would I go?

Diamond-Wood waited.

You’re young, Recruit. Save yourself.

And the Mayor?

Does she want to be saved?

Diamond-Wood looked at the Mayor, the sagging shape of her silhouetted in the light of the viewing deck, the sash an empty bandolier, the sunset streaming through her midsection as a bulb through a lampshade. Maybe not, he said.

I can understand that, said Griggs.

Want me to ask her?

No. No, that’s okay. And D-W? Tell her one thing, will you? Tell her we’re sorry.

AS THE SUN SET
the air cooled, Olpert was glad for his jacket, though his bare legs were goosefleshed. He and Gip followed Pop Street out the gates of the Necropolis and down into the boggy dump. The smell here was sour and yellow, the water oily, silky mats of gas floated atop its surface. Gulls watched and squawked mockingly as the threesome waded down a channel between mounds of trash.

Pop shrieked, Lark! and gestured grandly before him: his houseboat was lodged between the rusted-out shell of an old Municipal Works snowplow and the dump’s back fence. Thar she goes, he declared, wading toward it. My home!

Overhead a helicopter peeled off toward People Park, where Olpert watched it join dozens of choppers tracing interweaving loops in the dusky sky.

Hey, mister, said Gip, it’s okay, that chopper’s not Raven’s.

Raven?

The illustrationist! He’s gone, I think.

Oh.

I thought maybe? Since I was the chosen one? I could do something? But —

Hurry! Pop called, heaving himself up the ladder. Restribution awaits!

Gip was pulled aboard and ushered inside the cabin. Olpert went to follow him — but Pop stepped to the gunwales with an oar and blocked his way.

Not you, evil one, he said. You’re one of them. An esquivalient.

What?

Not with us, said Pop. Not here.
Not this time.

Olpert stared.

Ah, and now at last he sips the cruel cider of justification! Pop seemed to address an imaginary audience that might not have included Olpert. No, we shan’t save those whom propetuate the substantiation of a people’s past. You don’t care about history? Well now, Pop snarled,
you’re
the one whom is history.

He beat the water with his oar. For a moment, delight twinkled in his eyes, then a stony facade slid overtop. Expunge yourself, he growled.

Please, said Olpert, come on, I’m not the enemy here, I’m not with those people —

Expunge!

But I helped you. I helped the boy, and I freed you. I’m not one of them.

Pop raised the oar above his head, menacing a deathblow. Bygone, be bygone!

Olpert sank back into the water. The highest dry land was a mountain of junked appliances — rust-scabbed fridges and stoves and washer-dryers missing doors and dials. He climbed atop a dishwasher, his own wake slurped at the pile, and sat there, quietly.

A fine place for you, evil one, said Pop, amid the city’s refutations. Then he joined Gip inside the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

Olpert’s heart skipped beats. Though, wait — something actually
twitched and jumped around inside his jacket. Jessica! But in the
pocket was not a mole, but a bird. He set it down, it toggled from one foot to the other, shuddered with a sort of mute sneeze, and took to the air: an m-shaped silhouette, then a speck, then vanished. Another newscopter passed above, from it a spotlight searched for — what? Bodies, survivors, stories.

Pop came out of the cabin, went to push off, and discovered that, despite the rising water, the houseboat was stuck fast on a reef of trash. He dug his oar into a pile of softened cardboard, tried to dislodge the boat. Grunts, groans, splashing
. . .
failure. He knelt, catching his breath. Olpert watched. And Pop met his eyes. Help me, he gasped.

Olpert didn’t move.

Evil one! I am immobilized without another helmsman, it seems. Hence you may come onboard, yet don’t envisage yourself anything but enemary. For you are only such.

Sure, said Olpert.

As Olpert climbed the ladder Gip’s face appeared in the cabin’s porthole: he observed the action on deck with the aloof interest of a gossipy neighbour.

All right, evil one, said Pop, handing him an oar. If you’re with us be at least aidful.

From either side of the houseboat they heaved at the sludge, the boat creaked in protest, or encouragement. At last with a scraping sound they dislodged, coasted out into the floodwaters, and Pop swung them round toward Topside Drive.

Where to? said Olpert. Should we try to find the boy’s parents first or —

Neigh! Initially — Pop adopted a preacher’s cadence — one last trip home. For though the day enduskens, still the blazing sun of restribution beckons beaconlike my soul.

THE WATER POOLING
in the Museum of Prosperity lent it the look of a marble-pillared bathhouse. Debbie sloshed through the rotunda, climbed the stairs out of the water to the second floor. Footsteps echoing with the promise of a secret knock, she passed through Loopy’s retrospective — busts of the island’s rich
and famous, dozens of self-portraits, the Faces of
Us:
had been transplanted here too — to the room that housed the
IAD
’s modest collection of Mr. Ademus’s work: four rusty sculptures on plinths.

And here she discovered the island’s artist laureate, slumped against a wall. Debbie stopped. Loopy regarded her idly, beret twisted in her hands.

Hi, said Debbie.

No, said Loopy, low. I’m feeling very low.

Oh yeah?

All my work, said Loopy, with a sweeping gesture toward the adjoining galleries, is going to be destroyed. And then what will I have? What’s an artist robbed of her work?

I’m actually looking for someone, said Debbie, inching past.

Wait.

Debbie froze.

Listen to me, said Loopy. All of you, you thought I was serious. The whole time, you never knew. This, all of this — none of you ever saw what it was.

What was that? said Debbie.

You think I didn’t know how absurd I seemed? I mean,
Loopy
? This ridiculous outfit? Paintings of people on
TV
? Not that it matters now. It’s all amounted to nothing, anyway.

Yeah, said Debbie, edging up the spiral staircase, that sucks, good luck.

Nothing.
Nothing!
NO-THIN
G
. . .

Debbie climbed, Loopy’s squawking faded as she curled up and up, the tap of her sneakers, the swish of the banister under her hand, spiralling all the way to the towertop gallery. She tried the handle: locked. Her legs weakened, her spirits felt punctured —

A voice called, Who is it?

And Debbie said, It’s me.

Silence. A whispering of feet. A pause.

The catch clattered, the door opened, and standing there was Adine.

It’s you, she said.

Hi, said Debbie.

They stared at each other for a moment.

You’re not wearing the goggles, said Debbie.

No, said Adine. I took them off.

From somewhere in the Museum came a feeble, plaintive keening.

I guess you saw Loopy? said Adine.

Debbie grinned. Nothing,
nothing.

No-thing
!
laughed Adine. And they kissed.

You found me, Adine said, pulling away. You came.

Of course, said Debbie. Of course I did. I’m sorry.

It’s good to see you, Deb.

Yeah. It’s good to see you too.

Check it out, said Adine, Sand City’s finally getting its due.

The model had melted into sludge inside the glass cabinet. The city’s topography endured in two lumps — the Mews and Mount Mustela — and a divot where People Park had been. Everything else was mud.

Magic, said Debbie.

Oh well, said Adine. I suppose it was always meant to be like this, wasn’t it? Before you stopped me, I mean.

Yeah. Debbie watched her. I knew you’d be here.

Adine moved to the window. Not much sense making up stories
now, with all that’s happening. Was it him, all this ridiculousness, do you think? Or just nature?