by Susan Ee
‘When Obi asked you to take over, he might have meant that maybe you should take over for longer than you’re considering.’ Doc sounds like one of my old teachers, even though he looks more like a college student.
‘Obi knew exactly what he was doing,’ I say. ‘He asked me to keep people from dying. If they bruise each other while I’m trying to keep them alive, that’s just something we’ll have to deal with.’
The twins nod, looking impressed at my tough love attitude.
‘We’ll take care of it,’ says Dee.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What we always do,’ says Dum.
‘Give the masses what they want,’ says Dee as they walk over to two growing crowds facing off with each other.
The twins walk right into the middle of the face-off with their hands in the air. They talk. The crowds listen.
A large man struts forward from each side. One of the twins talks to the two large men, and the other twin begins taking notes as people from the crowd call out. Then everyone steps out into a circle, leaving the two large men in the middle.
As if on cue, the combined crowd begins shouting and jumping for a better view. They’ve closed the circle, so I can’t see what’s going on inside, but I can guess. The twins have started an official fight and are taking bets. Everybody’s happy.
No wonder Obi kept the twins around and put up with their antics.
By four o’clock, we have as many talent show contestants and audience members as fighters. I’m so busy I hardly have time to think about Raffe. But of course, he’s always in the back of my mind.
Will he do it? Will he kill humans in order to be accepted back into angel society? If we have to fight each other, will he hunt me like an animal?
The end of the world hasn’t exactly brought out humanity’s finest qualities. Raffe has seen people do the worst possible things to each other. I wish I could show him the other side – the best that we can be. But that’s just wishful thinking, isn’t it?
There are familiar faces among the volunteer fighters. Tattoo and Alpha from Alcatraz are there. Their real names are Dwaine and Randall, but I’d gotten used to thinking of them as Tattoo and Alpha, so I keep calling them that. Others are picking the names up, and if they don’t stop it soon, they’ll become their permanent nicknames.
It seems that half the group goes by nicknames. It’s as if everyone feels like they’re different people now, and so they shouldn’t have the same names as they did in the World Before.
I look up when people step aside to let a man in a suit and chauffeur’s hat walk up to me. Everyone stares at his exposed teeth and the raw meat where skin should have covered the bottom half of his face.
‘I heard your announcement,’ he says in his tortured way. ‘I’m glad you made it out of the aerie alive. I’m here to help.’
I give him a small smile. ‘Thank you. We could use your help.’
‘Yeah, as in right now,’ says Sanjay, waddling by us, trying to hold up his end of a stack of wooden planks. My ex-driver rushes over to help.
‘Thank you,’ says Sanjay with much relief.
I watch them load the planks onto a boat with easy camaraderie.
I feel like I have a lead submarine in my stomach when I think about all these people who will probably die because they believed me when I told them this was worth fighting for.
56
The sun flashes off the dark water of the bay below us. Even though it’s still afternoon, the sky has a fiery tinge with dark tendrils reaching across it. In the distance, the fire on the south end of the peninsula billows smoke into the air.
It’s not quite the reddish glow of the Pit, but it reminds me of it. Instead of being suffocatingly red, though, our burning civilization is ironically beautiful. The sky is alive and in motion with the reflected colors of the fire in hues of maroon, orange, yellow, and red. There are plumes of dark smoke shifting through the air, but instead of blotting out the colors, the sky blends and absorbs it, darkening some while contrasting with others.
Here on the concrete island that was once part of the beautiful Bay Bridge, the excitement is palpable. It throbs from every direction in the crowd – and it is a crowd now – as people mill around on the broken connection between San Francisco and the East Bay.
Everyone is helping set something up. Shirtless gang members show off their tattooed muscles as they climb to the highest points on the suspension bridge. The different gang factions race to fasten an enormous set of speakers and spotlights. The winner of the race claims some victory over the others for a prize that Dee and Dum have made worthwhile.
An impromptu stage is being built while people practice their talent show performances all around it. Crates have been stacked and are being nailed together for a fast and sloppy set of stage stairs.
Men in gray camouflage walk past me with their rifles. They wear large headphones around their necks and night vision goggles on their heads. I have headphones around my neck as well, but not the goggles. And instead of a rifle, I carry a pair of knives. There are plenty of guns, but the bullets are reserved for the experts.
A couple of them wear elaborate tentlike camouflage with bits of random stuff attached to it that makes me think of swamp monsters.
‘What are they wearing?’ I ask.
‘Ghillie suits,’ says Dee-Dum, walking by, as if that explains everything.
‘Right, of course.’ I nod as if I have a clue what that means.
I look around to see if I can be useful and find that everybody has their task and is busy doing it. Dee is handling the details of the show while Dum is organizing the audience, which is practicing the escape drill. The Colonel and the other council member who I’m starting to think of as the logistics lady weave through the throng, directing projects and keeping people on task.
Doc is handling the makeshift med station, which people avoid unless they’ve really hurt themselves. I admit, even I’m a little impressed with Doc’s dedication to people, even if I’ll always think he’s a monster for the things he did.
On the broken edge of the bridge where the rebar sticks out into the air, my sister sits with her legs dangling over the edge. Two of her scorpion-tailed pets lie curled up beside her while the third flies in loops in front of her. Maybe it’s catching fish. They are the only ones with space around them, as everybody gives them a wide berth.
I feel sick about having her here when I know she’ll be in danger. But as hard as I tried, both Mom and Paige refused to leave me. It twists my insides to have them be part of the fight, but on the other hand, I’ve learned that when you separate from people you love, there’s no guarantee you’ll ever see them again.
Raffe’s face pops into my head like it’s done a thousand times today. In this memory, he has a teasing look in his eyes as he laughs at my outfit when we were at the beach house. I shove the memory back. I doubt he’ll have a teasing expression when he slaughters my people.
My mom is nearby with a group of sheet-draped cult members. They all have amnesty marks on their shaved heads.
My mother tells me they are committed to making up for their sin of betraying me, but I wish they weren’t here at all. Still, if they want to show their commitment to the cause, sticking with my mother is a good way to show it. It keeps them out of the way, and I’m pretty sure my mom is making them pay their penance.
It looks like the only group that could use my help is the stage crew. I pick up a hammer and get on my knees to help build the stage.
The guy next to me gives me a rueful smile and hands me some nails. So much for the glory of leadership.
I don’t know what all those power-hungry people like Uriel are thinking. As far as I can tell, a leader ends up doing all the worrying and still needs to pitch in for the regular work.
I hammer, trying to settle my mind and keep from freaking out.
The sun is beginning to set, adding a golden glow to the water. Wisps of mist begin creepin
g over the bay. It should be a peaceful scene, only my blood feels like it’s freezing by the second.
My hands feel cold and clumsy, and I keep expecting to see vapor from my breath. It feels like I don’t have enough blood in my body, and I can feel my face turning pale.
I’m scared.
Until now, I really believed that we could pull this off. It sounded good in my head. But now that the sun is setting and things are coming together, I’m freaked out by all these people who believed me when I said this was a good idea. Why would anybody listen to me anyway? Don’t they know I can’t plan worth two pennies?
There are far more people here than there should be, and they continue to swell the ranks as ships continue to ferry them to our broken bridge. We don’t need them all, just enough to make the angels believe that coming here instead of the Golden Gate Bridge is worth their time. But we put the call out, and more and more people are arriving. It never occurred to us to put a limit on the size of the audience, because we thought it would be a miracle if we had three people who showed.
They know the angels are coming. They know this is our last stand. They know we will most likely be massacred.
And yet they keep coming. In droves.
Not just the able-bodied – the injured, the children, the old, the sick – they’re all here, crowded onto our little island of broken concrete and steel. There are too many of them.
This is a death trap. I can feel it in my bones. The noise, the lights, a talent show for chrissake, at the apocalyptic End of Days. What was I thinking?
Despite the crowded conditions, the audience maintains a respectful distance from the curtains and dividers that have been set up as a makeshift dressing area beside the stage.
Dee thunks onto the stage and bounces on it. ‘Good job, guys. I think it’ll hold for a few hours. Good enough.’ He cups his hands over his mouth and calls out to the crowd. ‘The show starts in ten, people!’
It’s a little odd that he doesn’t yell to the dressing area but rather to the crowd at large. But I guess he’s right – everyone here is performing tonight.
I work my way up to the makeshift stage, feeling the panic. The last time I was on a stage, the angels went berserk and decided they were going to kill everyone and feel righteous about it.
This time, I’m in front of an equally charged crowd of humans. But the emotion they’re charged with is fear and barely contained panic, not bloodlust like the angels.
In front of me is a standing-room-only crowd with hardly enough room to maneuver. The only thing that limits the number of people is the dimensions of the concrete island we chose.
People are too close to the edge of the broken bridge, where the rebar hang like dead arms reaching toward the dark water. They have children sitting on their shoulders. Teenagers and gang members are hanging off the suspension cables that rise to the sky and disappear into the wispy fog gathering above.
The thickening mist has me worried. Very worried. If we can’t see them, how are we going to fight them?
57
There must be a thousand people here. I can tell from the twins’ expressions that they didn’t expect such a large showing either.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say when I reach the twins onstage. They’re dressed in matching patched-up hobo outfits complete with clown faces and exaggerated bed-head hair. They each hold microphones that remind me of huge ice cream cones.
‘Why are there so many people here?’ I give them a baffled look. ‘I thought we made the danger clear to them. Don’t they have an ounce of common sense?’
Dee checks to make sure his mic is turned off. ‘It’s not about common sense.’ Dee surveys the crowd with some pride.
Dum also checks to make sure his mic is off. ‘It’s not about logic or practicality or anything that makes a remote amount of sense.’ He sports a wide grin.
‘That’s the whole point of a talent show,’ says Dee, doing a spin onstage. ‘It’s illogical, chaotic, stupid, and a whole hell of a lot of fun.’ Dee nods to Dum. ‘It’s what sets us apart from monkeys. What other species puts on talent shows?’
‘Yeah, okay, but what about the danger?’ I ask.
‘That I don’t quite have an answer for,’ says Dum.
‘They know it’s dangerous.’ Dee waves to the crowd. ‘They know they’ll only have twenty-five seconds to evacuate. Everybody knows what they’re getting into.’
‘Maybe they’re sick of being nothing more than rats rummaging through the trash and running for their lives.’ Dee sticks his tongue out at the kids sitting on shoulders. ‘Maybe they’re ready to be human again, if only for an hour.’
I think about that. We’ve been scratching by since the angels got here. Everyone, even the gangs, has been afraid. Constantly worried about food and shelter and basic human necessities. Worried about whether friends and family will survive the day, worried about monsters jumping out in the middle of the night and eating us alive.
And now there’s this. A talent show. Silly and nonsensical. Stupid and fun. Together. Laughing. Being part of the human race. Knowing about the horrors that have happened and will happen but choosing to live anyway. Maybe there’s an art to being human.
Sometimes I feel like a Martian in the middle of all this humanity.
‘Or,’ says Dum, ‘maybe they’re here because they’re all lusting after the’ – he turns on his mic – ‘amazing, magical recreational vehicle!’ He sweeps his arm to the stage backdrop.
There’s still enough light to make the projection behind him dim, but it’s a picture of a scratched-up RV.
‘Yes, you can believe your eyes, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Dee. ‘This is an unbelievably high-end recreational vehicle. In the old days, a beauty like this would run you – what – a hundred thousand dollars?’
‘Or a million,’ says Dum.
‘Or ten million, depending on what you want to do with it,’ says Dee.
‘This sweet baby is completely bulletproof,’ says Dum.
The crowd goes quiet.
‘Yes, you heard that right,’ says Dee.
‘Bulletproof,’ says Dum.
‘Shatterproof,’ says Dee.
‘And zombie-proof windows grace this beauty of a moving home,’ says Dum.
‘It comes complete with an early intruder system, three-sixty-degree video capability for watching your surroundings at all times, remote motion sensors so you’ll know if someone or something is near. And best of all . . .’ The photo projected behind them changes to the interior of the RV.
‘Absolute luxury of the World Before,’ says Dee. ‘Leather seats, luxury beds, a dining table, TV, washing machine, and its own bathroom complete with shower,’ says Dum.
‘For those of you wondering what the TV is for, why, we’ve made sure it comes with its own enormous movie collection. Who needs broadcast or streaming when you have a generator built in to your home?’
‘It took us a week to get the paint to look as dirty and grimy as possible. And believe me, it broke my heart to have to dirty this beauty up, but it’s a huge advantage not to look like a rich kid on wheels.’
‘Speaking of wheels,’ says Dee. ‘It can go twenty miles on four flat tires. It can climb up hills and over other cars if need be. This is an all-terrain vehicle of the wet dream kind, ladies and gentlemen. If we ever loved anything more than this, we must have called her Mommy.’
‘Hang on tight to your raffle tickets,’ says Dum. ‘They could be worth more than your life.’
Now it makes more sense. I’m sure some people came to stand by other humans in a final fight for survival, but I’m equally sure that some came for a shot at winning the World After RV.
The RV projection turns off. Huge spotlights turn on that make the stage glow. I cringe at the beacon, then remember that it’s supposed to be showy.
The speakers crank up with a whine that turns into a piercing shrill as the feedback blasts throughout the broken bridge.
I sca
n the dusky skies and see nothing but the beautiful sunset coloring the wispy mist. The peekaboo sky is a magical backdrop for the show, which seems miraculous in itself.
Dee and Dum dance a jig onstage, then bow as if they’re expecting a Broadway-show response. At first, the applause is muffled and scattered, timid and afraid.
‘Whooo-wheee!’ Dee shouts into his microphone. It reverberates through the whole crowd. ‘Damn, it feels good to make noise. Let’s all get it out of our system, people.’
‘If we’re going to rebel, we might as well rebel with noise and gusto!’ says Dum.
‘Everybody, let’s take a moment of joy by screaming out whatever you’ve been feeling all these weeks. Ready? Go!’
The twins let out a holler through their microphones that releases all kinds of stored up energy ranging from excitement to anger, aggression to joy.
At first, only one or two echo the twins’ yells. Then more people join in. Then more. Until the whole crowd is screaming and yelling at the top of its lungs.
This may be the first time anyone has spoken loudly since the Great Attack. A wave of both fear and cheer is released into the crowd. Some begin crying. Some begin laughing.
‘Wow,’ says Dum. ‘That’s a big ol’ mess of humanness right there.’
‘Respect!’ Dum thumps his fist to his chest and bows down to the audience.
The noise goes on a little longer, then settles down. People are jittery and anxious, but excited too. Some have smiles on their faces, others have frowns. But they’re all here – alert and alive.
I settle into my spot at the corner of the stage and look around. I’m on the ground crew, which means I’m one of the lookouts for tonight until there’s action on the ground. I scan the horizon. It’s getting harder to see in the thickening mist, but I don’t notice any hordes of angels.
On the water, two boats are throwing buckets of chopped fish and venison innards into the water all around our chunk of the bridge. A pool of blood spreads behind the boats.