Feral King

by Ginger Booth

  “Frosty is still out of it,” she murmured. “But he’ll be OK. Maybe I’ll bring him over to sit with you. Do you need anything else? I should check on Kat.”

  He grasped her wrist, feather light. “Don’t.” He met her eye for a moment, then dropped his head in weak sobs. “She –”

  Ava pulled him to her breast the way she did for Frosty in his nightmares.

  “I want to die,” he admitted, his voice a thin keening. “I loved her.”

  “Sh. You’re not allowed to die either.”

  When he drifted to sleep, she pulled herself into the hall again. She caught one of the children this time, collecting their empties to refill. “Jake?” she asked.

  “He’s in the dojo. I’ll tell him you’re up. Is Frosty…?”

  “Frosty isn’t on his feet yet, but he’ll make it. Maz, too.” She had no real basis for this conviction, but she lied confidently. “How’s the gang?”

  “Lot of people sick. Us younger kids get better faster.”

  Ebola all over again. And as with Ebola, Ava needed to regain her health a day at a time, but this time nursing Frosty and Maz along too. She retreated to the kitchen to study their remaining private food stash and strategize how she’d use it to regain their strength.

  She grieved for Kat. But with her gone, Ava assumed she needed to step up to run the girls and kids. At first this prospect was daunting. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she wanted to lead the girls in a new direction.

  34

  April 8, E-day plus 121

  Frosty recovered more slowly than Panic, who’d even ventured downstairs the past several days. He visited Maz’s apartment while she was gone, to care for him during the bright day. A week behind them at coming down with typhus, Maz now began his return to the lucid.

  “Does this change the equation?” Maz struggled to sit higher on the couch back.

  “Which equation is that?” Math wasn’t Frosty’s forte.

  “We figured spring,” Maz reminded him. “The Ebola epidemic would die back. Because…Why?”

  “Epidemics burn themselves out. Once everyone has been exposed and had a chance to get ill or not. Unless there’s a supply of new hosts to jump to, the disease dies out. And everything is easier in spring than winter.”

  “Is Ebola worse than typhus?” Maz asked.

  “Oh, I get you. You’re saying they’d reset the clock. The Army on the barricades couldn’t let Ebola escape. But they can’t let typhus out either, because it’s just as bad.”

  Maybe, maybe not. “But how would they know? The army on the barricades,” Frosty wondered.

  “Frost, they’ve got satellites that can count nose-hairs. Probably informers, too. Maybe not here in Manhattan. That’s too big a hassle. Too dangerous to visit the middle.” Maz lost his train of thought, derailed by his own digression.

  “OK, so they know,” Frosty said by way of reorientation. “Let’s say the original argument is still valid, three months. From the disease starting to die back, not from its onset. So like July.”

  They spent a few long moments contemplating the prospect of surviving here twice as long as they already had. Maz frowned. “How long do you suppose it takes to grow food?”

  “I dunno. Could ask Panic. Her mustard greens didn’t take long. Month.”

  Maz shook his head. “I think the harvest starts in August. In the farm markets, there’s not much in July except berries and pea pods. Greens.”

  “You’re right. And then the harvest is a lot of work, if they’re not using fossil fuels.”

  “Lot of work anyway,” Maz offered. “Not much farming expertise around here.”

  When the U.S. sliced itself into the new, to-become-self-sufficient ‘super-states’ as per the Calm Act, they landed in New York–New Jersey. Both lushly fertile states when America was young, but local real estate had been awfully pricey for agriculture since the Civil War or so. And the rocks and hills, marshes and rivers and forests, were a nuisance for mechanized farming.

  “So maybe September or October, after the harvest is in,” Frosty hazarded. “God, that’s nearly a year.”

  “If ever,” Maz countered. “What are we down now? Half dead, you think?”

  “More than that.” The obvious follow-on, how many would be dead by the time they were rescued, wasn’t worth mentioning. They had no particular reason to believe help would ever come. They were convinced the goal of the exercise was to cull them, after all, and they weren’t dead yet. Conversation languished for a few minutes.

  “Hey Maz? I know you loved her. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “I don’t know if this helps. But your grandfather was right. You were right to break up with her back then.”

  “Fuck you. I was not. And here we ended up the same, both gang bangers.”

  “Not the same, Maz. Kat was a wild child, the model Boobzilla from whom all others sprung.”

  That wrung a chuckle out of Maz. “She made a magnificent Boobzilla. But I’m Bobzilla.”

  “Never happen, buddy. You’re a nurturer. Finest kind.”

  Maz sighed hugely. “I’ll kill you if you ever repeat that in public.” They both started laughing. “So your top housekeeper was the bitch from hell. Your girlfriend is sharp as a tack, and about as cuddly. But your enforcer is a nurturer. You think maybe you have some job misfit issues, Frosty? Jeez.”

  “But I like it!”

  “You would.”

  Still chuckling, Frosty added, “You forgot the nut job in chief.”

  “Canny as a fox, Frost. You’re not nearly as crazy as you think you are.”

  Frosty relaxed into this reassurance and the cushions. He was glad Maz thought so. He always harbored doubts himself. The past three weeks spent ill and blank of brain did little to enhance his confidence in his own sanity.

  April 9, E-day plus 122

  Frosty abruptly sat three steps up from the dojo. He was strong enough today. He could make it into the dojo, return from the dead. Sure would be nice to catch his breath first. He rested arms on legs, head on arms. He needed to make the right impression after three weeks out sick.

  Enter the meet with a clear idea of what you want. Dad’s voice. He who knows what he wants, gets it.

  Cole Snowdon was a master of marketing, landing contracts for his firm to the tune of millions, even billions. He peddled green energy conversions for skyscrapers, attempting to forestall climate disaster. This proved too little too late, and money didn’t factor into Frosty’s existence. But Cole taught his boy how to work a room, oh yes.

  Screw you, Dad. Well-honed reflexes banished the man from mind again, retaining only the skill, the instincts of a salesman.

  What am I selling today?

  He blew out, grateful to breathe easily again, no longer the fast and shallow panting of the illness. He took inventory of a wrung-out body, all parts accounted for and regaining strength. We live. He cocked his head, and sighed.

  “You came down!” Panic’s voice at the door to 23rd. He glanced up as she reversed course onto the street. “I’ll go fetch everybody!”

  “Wait!” But she vanished. Dammit.

  Frosty stretched his feet below and levered himself up from the stairs. He was becoming a master of energy conservation. The maneuver still left him winded after climbing down from the third floor, so he paused a moment to catch his breath. Then he strode in through the dojo’s hall door.

  Only a few loitered here, intent on their business. One kid, maybe Panic’s age, glanced up at him from the water dispenser, probably expecting someone else. His blank surprise morphed into a broad grin. “Frosty! Welcome back!”

  Frosty weakly matched the grin. “Thanks, good to be here.” Unable to recall the kid’s name, he continued to the whiteboard. Interesting how his simple directives had evolved over the weeks. Removing corpses was a priority again.

  His attention stuck on the number at top left, boxed apart from everythi
ng else, the number of gang members, now 450. At first he blanked trying to recall its value on the day he fell ill. That’s right, they’d almost recovered from their losses against Hip Hop and the Caudillos. They were up to 550 again. He wondered how many times they might yo-yo up to 560, then die off, never able to exceed some cosmic curb to gang growth.

  Jake stepped next to him and broke his daze. “Fantastic to see you back, man.”

  “Great job here, Jake.” Frosty touched the number. “How many still sick?”

  “Maybe a hundred on the mend. Only a few new cases lately.” Jake lowered his voice and scratched his nose. “Half the gang got sick. We lost about 130. Now new orphans are drifting in. You already know about Kat and Hotwire, right?”

  Frosty recoiled, feeling the words like a sucker punch to the gut. He put a hand on Jake’s shoulder for balance. “Hotwire?”

  “Sorry, thought you knew. Damn, I suck at leadership. How did I ever think I was fit for West Point?”

  Frosty squeezed his shoulder to halt the pointless words. “You done good, Jake. Did we get overrun? Shot in our sickbeds?”

  Jake blinked, and swallowed. “No. Thanks.”

  “I need to sit.” Frosty nodded to people, with a faint smile, as he made his way to his cheap banquet table throne. More of the captains kept pouring in, while those of lower rank split. I’m not up for this. He’d rather just sit still and remember Hotwire. Someone should. He was a good man, troubled. He wanted to lie down and die, but instead he stood by Frosty’s side for…three months? Four? What was it that Father Tanis said? God sends me no one but angels. He quirked a sad smile at the thought of calling Hotwire an angel, or Pomelo of the Libre gang. Elon might appreciate the subtlety.

  Panic strode in to claim a perch on the left end of his table. Jake hovered to his right. A girl propped the street door open to the mild April air for latecomers. But if so many were sick or dead, this score of kids might be it.

  Someone started an ovation, which caught on and the room filled with applause and the signature cheer, “Frosty! Frosty! White Supreme!” The gang’s new name stuck like mud. He didn’t fight it. The name suited them.

  He let the crowd quiet down on its own. “Good to be back. Just for a few minutes today. But I’m on the mend.” This started them cheering again. He basked, feeling the warmth and welcome like the spring sunshine after so long hiding in the dark. This time he raised a hand to calm them, then turned it into a quick speed-bags and a fist thrown straight up. The team echoed the gesture, in silence this time.

  Frosty turned to his girlfriend, and teased, “So, I didn’t call this meeting. What are they here for, Panic?”

  “To welcome you back! Right? Am I right?” A brief surge of cheers erupted again.

  “Thank you.” He paused.

  Fuckette strode forward. “Frosty! You’re not making her queen bee, are you?” The bank of girls to his right began grumbling.

  “Hey!” Frosty barked. A flip of his hand dismissed her to get back in line. “This isn’t time for that. This isn’t time for decisions or pronouncements. I just learned five minutes ago that Hotwire is dead. The first guy I recruited into the gang. Stood by my side, guarding me, before I laid eyes on the rest of you.”

  Whoops. This was not Frosty the Snowman, the fighter with ice in his veins.

  But then again, these weren’t his opponents. They were family. He nodded slightly to himself as something clicked. Sure, they depended on his cool head in a fight. But that wasn’t why they loved him, followed him. He swallowed.

  “Kat. I’ve known Kat for four years. One of my closest friends. I told Kat secrets no one else knows about me. Not even Maz.” A few tears started to brim over, and he let them. He shared his pain with his gang, his family. “This is the time for grieving. For healing. To do the needful.

  “Elon of Libre sent me a letter. Typhus broke out all over the city. Nobody’s attacking us now. We have time to heal. Not a lot of time. We need food. There’s always work to do. Sick to care for.”

  Frosty looked to Jake, who confirmed this with a sad nod. “One week from today,” the king decreed. “Then we salute the dead, burn the pyres.”

  He slipped off the table onto his feet. “But I celebrate you. Words cannot express how fiercely I love you. How glad I am to see you standing here. You LIVED!” He raked his gaze around the room, meeting their eyes. “That’s what matters. That’s our mission. YOU LIVE! Dismissed.”

  The cheers were deafening.

  Frosty figured that went rather well. Until he glanced to Panic, staring at her own clasped hands. So tiny and frail, the fevers left her little more than a bunch of sticks, no more woman than a 12-year-old.

  “Panic –” he began.

  But she rose and waded into the throng of girls. To do the next right thing. His girlfriend was a dynamo that way. Her little form broke his heart. And she is so pissed at me… Panic expected him to declare her queen bee right this minute, didn’t she. He bet she even convened this meeting for him to do just that.

  I don’t think so, baby.

  “Well played, Frost,” Jake encouraged, his back to the room. “Last thing we need is for Boobzilla to challenge Panic. To settle who’s the queen bitchiest.”

  Panic would lose. Fuckette looked as healthy as the last time he’d seen her. Half the girls hadn’t come down with typhus. “Yeah. I’m wiped. Heading back upstairs.”

  “Let’s get some guys to walk you up. Little power assist.”

  “Any guys likely to challenge me?” Frosty arched an eyebrow.

  “No way. We’d tear him limb from limb.” Jake scratched his stubbly jaw, searching for tact. “Not sure the ladies from Hades feel that way about Panic.”

  “No,” Frosty agreed. And that was a problem, a big one.

  35

  April 13, E-day plus 126

  “I have a present for you,” Frosty murmured, as he preceded Panic into their apartment. The sun hadn’t yet set on a glorious spring day. The balcony door stood open and a fresh breeze stirred the drapes, their apartment filled with fresh air and light.

  Please, Panic. He wanted so desperately for her to accept his request. He needed to play this oh so very carefully.

  “What’s the occasion?” Panic asked impishly.

  “Hm.” He led her to the bathroom, and indicated his gift with a hand flourish. A new three-drawer Japanese cloisonné jewelry box, inlaid with peacocks, now graced the corner of the tiny wash stand. “For you.”

  She grinned in surprise, and stepped to the sink. She looked so frail since the typhus. Elbows and wrists protruded from stick-thin arms. No one would call her Tail Panic anymore, her body having scavenged her powerful butt muscles to keep her alive. He longed for her to feel pretty again, to see healthy skin fill in between those high Slavic cheekbones and delicate jaw.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror. He saw skin and bones and scar, and looked away.

  She pulled open the top jewelry drawer, which offered earrings that ranged from tasteful pearls and studs and diamonds, to flamboyant feathers. She pulled out the most garish, a pair of cheap geometric bangles of black and silver plastic beads, a couple inches across.

  The post was gold. Frosty checked.

  “Kat’s,” Panic breathed.

  “Just that one pair. The others I picked out for you. But I thought you’d want a set to remember her by.” Frosty reached to select another pair of earrings from the box, elongated freshwater pearls dangling from simple studs. Probably the least impressive looking jewelry in the drawer, but he thought they’d look good on her. He held them by her ear to demonstrate.

  “I like those! Any that you’d wear with me?” Her eyes playfully challenged him in the mirror. “These look too dainty for you. I think…” She selected diamond studs, with tiny chips of pale blue. “Would you wear it?”

  He held the earring card up to his own ear and shrugged. “Sure.” He replaced one of his simple steel studs with the flashing diamond. Then he ope
ned the third drawer, and drew out a delicate necklace he liked, a simple gold chain. The little pendant supposedly represented a heart broken open. An ambivalent symbol, and not very showy, but he figured the chunky necklaces would overpower her slender neck. He fastened it on for her, arranging the fine chain on her jutting collarbones, and stroking the nape of her neck.

  “Beautiful,” he breathed in her ear, and kissed it.

  She preened happily. She wasn’t pretty today, and she knew it, but she was beautiful to him, and surely she felt it. “So these jewels make me your queen?”

  Shit. Backfired. He retreated to lean on the doorframe, gazing down at his feet. “My girlfriend. To celebrate you as my girlfriend.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And queen. Frosty, you are going to make me the new queen. Right?”

  He thunked his head back on the molding, and met her eye again. “Not exactly.”

  She slipped the earring card back into the box and closed it. She folded those fragile arms over her deflated chest, and glared at him in the mirror. “How dare you? Frosty, I have done everything to make this gang work. From the beginning! Yeah, I’m weak now. But I’ll get my strength back! Talk to me! What is your malfunction?”

  Frosty waited her out, plus a few extra seconds for her to wind down and listen. “I want you to be my girlfriend. Just that. And everything else you do, running the home front. Panic, I value what you do. It’s important. Always was.” He’d leaned on her every step of the way.

  “And if I walk out of here because you’re a flaming asshole?”

  That broke his sentimental whimsy. He glowered at her. “Feel free. While you still can.”

  “What do you mean by that!”

  Frosty breathed in cool, and blew out poised. “In your current role, we are free to break up. Or stay together. But Panic, what happens if you’re my queen?”