—He can dress.
I dress. I look at the ruined collar. I remember the day Evie gave me the jacket. It was my birthday. The day she thinks is my birthday, anyway. I look at the old lady and put the jacket back on.
—Can I have my poker chip back? They might still accept it.
She picks up the two halves of the poker chip and hands them to one of the boys.
—Make him eat it.
They don’t really make me eat it. What they do is, they get me on my knees and stick the barrel of one of those guns in my neck and I open my mouth and they shove the jagged edged pieces of plastic inside and force it closed and punch my face a few times and the broken chip cuts up my tongue and gums and the soft insides of my cheeks. But, no, I don’t actually eat the chip. When they’re done I look at the old woman, still seated on her couch, wearing that very practical sweater and slacks combo and equally practical walking shoes, gray hair back in a bun, reading glasses dangling from a neck strap, machine pistol–armed boys arrayed around her. I open my mouth and the broken chip and some bits of skin and a large quantity of blood falls onto the parquet floor.
—I don’t suppose your last name is Predo, by any chance?
She brings the glasses to her eyes and looks me over. Inspects me. Takes my measure. I don’t like it.
She lowers the glasses.
—If Dexter Predo were my child, I’d cut out my womb and throw it on the fire.
I wipe blood from my lips.
—Well, we have that it common. Minus the womb.
—One lump or two.
I scratch my cheek.
—If I say three, are you gonna whip out a mallet and hit me over the head with it?
She wrinkles her forehead at me, tiny silver tongs still poised over the sugar bowl.
—Excuse me?
—Nothing. Sorry. No sugar.
—Milk?
—Black is fine.
She lifts the delicate cup and offers it to me. I take it and give it a good sniff. Nothing but the strong scent of Earl Grey.
She watches me through the steam drifting off the top of her own cup of sugary, milky tea.
—Tell me, Mr. Pitt.
—Yeah?
—What is it about the manner in which you’ve been treated here that makes you think we’d resort to anything so subtle as drugging your tea?
I take a sip.
—Nothing. Habit.
She nods.
—One may assume then that you do not often take tea with friends.
—If one wanted to, sure.
I look over my shoulder at the window.
—It makes you nervous?
I look back at her.
—A big, east-facing picture window with nothing covering it but a drape? Yeah, I’m a little itchy about it.
—It’s a very heavy drape.
—Imagine my relief.
—And we certainly wouldn’t consider throwing it open on you while we are all here together enjoying our tea.
I look at the four boys standing about the room. They’re taking their tea in shifts; two of them sipping while the others keep their guns on me.
—Sure. But you never know when someone on the street might shoot out that window and tear that rag to shreds. You should nail up some plywood at least.
The corners of her mouth drop.
—Plywood. It would ruin the room.
She stands and walks toward the window.
—And I would lose my view.
She fingers a fold in the burgundy drapes.
—True, I cannot enjoy it during the day. But at night it is still quite spectacular.
She stares at the curtain, looking beyond it to the sprawl of the Hood below Morningside Park.
—Even if it does remind one of what is out there.
She turns back to me.
—Of what is living in homes that were once ours. On land that we rightfully own.
She spreads her arms wide.
—No, Mr. Pitt, I keep this window so thinly covered for a reason. So that I might open it that much more quickly when the time comes to watch the things down there being burned out of their nests.
She returns to the couch.
—That day will come soon enough. I can bear waiting for it a little longer. Just now, we should talk about you. And what is going to be done with you.
I swirl the last of my tea around the bottom of the cup.
She points at the cup.
—Anything of use to you in there?
I look at the tea leaves. They don’t tell me the future. They don’t tell me anything at all. But I don’t really need them, I already have a pretty good idea of what’s going to be done with me.
—Nothing I can see.
She holds out her hand.
—May I?
I hand her the cup.
She gazes into it.
—Hmm.
—’M I gonna hit the lotto?
She sets the cup on the tea tray.
—No, just as you said, nothing. But I can tell you your future nonetheless.
—That would be a relief about now.
She arches an eyebrow.
—A relief? Well then, allow me to relieve you. I will soon call Dexter Predo and inform him that we have you in our custody. He will immediately make arrangements for your rendition, which will most likely take place as soon as the sun has gone down. You will be transferred to Coalition territory proper, and Predo will begin a lengthy interrogation. When he has extracted every last scrap of useful information you possess, you will be executed. In the traditional fashion. Having not seen the sun in…many years, I could almost envy you the view you will have.
I cross my legs.
—But not really.
She shakes her head.
—No, not really.
I play with the frayed hem of my jeans.
—So what’s holding up you making this call?
She slips her glasses on and studies me again.
—Dexter Predo will do what is best for the Coalition at large. Or rather, what is best for the Secretariat and for his chances of advancing to that body. I, on the other hand, will do what is best for our settlement here. This final scrap of our great northern territory, which is all Predo retained for us when he negotiated that abominable treaty with the animals on those streets.
She gives it a rest for a second.
I have nothing to say. So I don’t.
She picks it back up.
—Seeing as you have just come from our occupied territories, I am very curious to hear about what you have seen there.
Another rest.
Me, I still got nothing to interject.
—Predo will offer as little of this information to me as possible, keeping the most useful details for himself.
I look at the mixing bowl at the edge of the table, the one still filled with the remains of those cigarettes.
—And I intend to extract as many of those details as possible before I must call him and report your capture. Using the same tactics he will use.
I cough.
—Lady, if you’re offering me a chance to avoid being tortured twice, just say so. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll spill it. Just maybe one of these guys could get me some rolling papers so I can put my cigarettes back together and have a smoke while I’m talking.
She looks at one of the boys. He comes over and puts a box of Marlboro Lights and a yellow Bic on the table.
I light up.
She takes my empty cup off its saucer.
—You may call me Mrs. Vandewater. I prefer it to lady.
I blow smoke.
She slides the saucer in front of me.
—I’m afraid I don’t have a proper ashtray.
More smoke.
—And now that you have your cigarette, I would like to know what you saw while you were below. How many soldiers, what arms, defenses along the border, these are the details I am most interested in.
&
nbsp; I heave out another lungful of smoke and knock ash onto the very-expensive-looking Persian rug that her tea table rests on.
—Fuck off. Mrs. Vandewater.
I expect to be given a few good raps on the back of the skull and hauled away to a basement or some other place where the floors aren’t as nice and the bloodstains won’t matter so much. But all that happens is the Vandewater lady gives a little sniff, lets her glasses drop to the end of their neck chain, gets up and walks out, two of her boys trailing her. The others don’t even slap me around. They just stand there and keep me covered, both of them staying on the same side of the room so there’s no chance they might shoot each other if they have to open fire.
I make the most of it, smoking the rest of the Marlboros and grinding the butts into the rug. It passes the time.
An hour goes by. I run out of cigarettes. I stand up and the boys don’t shoot me. I stretch. Still no bullets. I take a step in their direction. They both take their fingers from the safe position alongside the trigger guard and wrap them around their triggers. I take a step back. They unwrap. So I guess this is my side of the room. I take a look.
I had the bag over my head when they brought me in, but I’m pretty sure we stayed on that same block they were driving around. There or very nearby. They drove us down a ramp into an underground garage. The elevator went up express, opening right into the apartment. The way Vandewater talked about the view, figure we’re anywhere from the sixth to the tenth floor. I can’t hear anything from the other rooms of the apartment or the apartment above. Probably prewar, brick walls. The wainscoting and the molding around the ceiling have never been painted over white like in most old Manhattan buildings. Yeah, this is one of those places on Morningside Drive, one of those castles right at the top of the park.
I take a look at the walls: a couple nice prints, some of van Gogh’s sunflowers, a Remington. Nice stuff, but not my style. There are a few plaques, dark wood with brass, the Vandewater name engraved prominently. Awards. Acknowledgments for efforts. Thanks for donations. That kind of thing. Some sheepskins, too. A yellowed diploma from Columbia when it was still King’s College. Several more, also from Columbia. Men and women, all Vandewaters. Most very old, some that are new.
I look at the new ones. All the degrees taken in the sciences. Biology mostly. I think about that. I think about that school right around the block. I think about the kind of people who go there. And I file those thoughts away. I get lucky, I can maybe follow up on them someday. Think I have an idea who one of those thoughts might lead me to.
I look some more.
There are some photos. Silver-framed, sitting on a table at the end of the couch, a shaded lamp illuminating them.
I look. Blink Look again. I pick one up.
Vandewater. Predo. Terry Bird.
The door opens. Vandewater comes in. Her boys come after, a sagging, head-bagged body between them.
She takes the photo from my hand.
—I have no idea why I keep this.
She lifts her glasses to her eyes and peers at the photo.
—To remind me of happier times, I suppose. Although I hate to think of myself as being nostalgic. Nostalgia rivets you in the past. It keeps you from looking forward. It is good, I think, to be proud of your history, to honor it, but one should never wallow in it.
She taps a very short nail against the glass covering the picture.
—That is what I tried to teach those boys.
She has smudged the glass with her finger. She pulls the cuff of her sleeve down and uses it to wipe the smudge away.
—I’m not certain Bird ever quite got it.
She sets the photo back in its place.
—While Predo, I fear, has taken it much too far.
—Have you ever wondered about the name Coalition?
—Not really.
—It never occurred to you that it was an odd name for an organization that shows such unanimity?
—Like I said, never thought about it.
—Yes. You strike me as one who does that frequently. Someone who fails to think about things. Some history then, while they prepare.
Two of the boys are moving furniture from the middle of the room. The guy with the bagged head is slumped in a corner.
—The Coalition was once just that: a Coalition of smaller groups. Over the years those groups coalesced; they became a single, unified entity. For the most part.
The furniture out of harm’s way, the boys begin spreading a sheet of plastic over the floor.
—This is what I mean when I accuse Terry Bird of nostalgia.
She points at the photo.
—He was apt at recruiting. And so there he is, Downtown, trying to repeat the lessons of the past. Assembling a coalition of disparate groups, with the goal of creating a single, unified whole. He will fail. The historical moment is different, time has marched, while he remains in the past. What worked once, will not work again.
They begin taping down the edges of the plastic.
—Predo, it is true, looks forward. But to what end? He sacrifices territory, maneuvers behind the scenes, probes for weaknesses in the uninfected world that he might manipulate, looks always to the future. To adapting to the future. But only for himself. Only out of a desire for power. He is craven. And he disguises this, hides it from himself, by cocooning himself with influence. But I have seen him cower. From the back of my hand.
They pick up the guy by the wall and carry him to the middle of the plastic.
—Bird, at least, went off on his own, attempted to forge his own kingdom. It will crash down around him, but he has a sense of vision beyond himself. Predo is narrow.
One of the boys has a briefcase. He opens it. Inside there are works: needles, syringes, plastic bags, loops of rubber hose.
—Predo is selfish.
She walks over to her window. Daylight glows at the edges of the drapes. It hurts my eyes to look at it.
—That is why we are caged up here, surrounded by filth. Robbed of our heritage. Unable to exert our influence as we should. Unable to shape the future.
The boy pulls the bag from the guy’s head. It’s a young guy. Hispanic. Close-cropped hair, a hoop piercing his left eyebrow.
—Except by using the tools of the past.
One of the boys on the plastic sheet draws a scalpel from the briefcase.
Vandewater moves to the edge of the plastic, standing over the boys who kneel on either side of the Hispanic kid.
She looks at me, sitting over here on her couch, arms once again wired behind my back.
—Have you ever infected anyone, Mr. Pitt?
—No.
—Then this will be an education for you.
One boy opens his mouth. He sticks out his tongue. The other, the one with the scalpel, places the tip of the blade against his partner’s tongue and cuts. He pushes the scalpel until the blade has disappeared inside the healthy pink flesh, then he draws it downward, slicing it open to the tip. Blood begins to gush. The boy with the butterflied tongue bends forward, he opens the Hispanic kid’s mouth, and covers it with his own. Blood seeps out around the seal created by their lips.
Vandewater looks at me.
—There are other ways to do it, of course.
The Hispanic kid starts to jerk.
—But this is one of the surest.
His heels kick the floor.
—Ultimately, it all depends on the subject.
His palms slap the plastic and his fingers clench and unclench.
—You see, not everyone can accept the Vyrus.
The boy lifts his mouth away, blood still leaking from his tongue. He looks at Vandewater. She watches the Hispanic kid for another moment as greenish yellow foam begins to erupt from his mouth and nose. She shakes her head.
The boy with the scalpel places it against the Hispanic kid’s neck and shoves it deep into his carotid, cupping his hand around the entrance wound to keep the blood from spraying the room. The Hisp
anic kid’s tremors subside. In less than a minute he is still.
The boy with the sliced tongue wipes at it with a cotton pad. The wound has stopped bleeding and a scab is forming. The other boy puts his tools aside and the two of them begin to roll the plastic sheet with the Hispanic kid inside.
Vandewater steps out of their way.
—And so we will have to try again.
The door opens. Another head-bagged kid is brought in.
—A student body is an invaluable resource.
The new kid is laid out on a fresh sheet of plastic. The bag comes off. This one might be twenty. Middle Eastern. Khakis and a button-down.
—Away from home for the first time, they become depressed, alienated. Their behavior may be uncharacteristic. They get involved with drugs. Run away from school. Walk into dangerous parks after midnight. Commit suicide.
The two boys prepare to repeat their procedure, switching roles so that the one who last wielded the scalpel will now be cut.
—This is especially true of freshmen. They drop like flies.
More tongue slicing occurs.
—And even more true of the racial minorities. So driven. I’m speaking particularly of Asians, East Asians, and Middle Easterners now. The internal and external pressures to succeed, it can be unbearable for a youngster.
This one tremors and shakes, but no foam spews. Instead, his throat works as he sucks the infected blood out of the boy’s split tongue.
Vandewater bends to observe.
—There, we have a match.
After several seconds the boy pulls his mouth free. The Middle Eastern kid’s mouth opens and closes and his own tongue runs around his lips cleaning them of blood. His eyes are open, but they stare unfocused and sightless at the ceiling.
Vandewater moves closer, stands over the kid, looking at his face.
—Now he has great potential. He could accomplish remarkable feats.
The boys have begun assembling the works from the briefcase.
—With nurturing and care, with a firm hand to steer him, he might become something worthwhile. A scholar of our kind, one who might someday unlock all the secrets of the Vyrus. A statesman, to unite the Clans. A poet, to write verses of our plight. An able soldier, to take arms in the coming battles.
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