Rags & Bones

by Melissa Marr

  Tangled into this Chopin-influenced short story is my love for selchies. I’ve been to Orkney three times in the past four years. I’ve walked among seals, and I’ve had them follow me in the water as I walked on the shore. It’s easy to see a human face in the mist. It’s easy to understand the origin of the mythology, and when I add that mythology to Chopin, I see a woman entrapped again, but this time with another option—one in which her need to enter the sea is more than seeking death. The sea still offers freedom.

  New Chicago

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  As Cole hurried along River Street, the cries of the peddlers changed. One minute they were hawking mended shirts and worn boots and the next they were selling equally worn-out dreams and promises. “Peddlers of hope,” people called them. “Predators,” his brother, Tyler, said. Preying on hope, because that was the only thing the people of New Chicago had left.

  If Tyler caught him here, Cole would get a lecture. There was no danger of that, though, because his brother wouldn’t set foot on this part of River Street. He said it was because he didn’t want to give the hope peddlers an audience, but Cole suspected Tyler feared temptation. Walk past the peddlers and he might hear a pitch that would make him dig into his pocket for coins they couldn’t afford to spare, wagering them on the dream of a better life in New Chicago.

  New Chicago. The name itself rang with promise. People from across the nation fought starvation and bandits and the infected to get to the great city. When they were finally admitted, after weeks in quarantine outside, they wept. But they did not weep for joy.

  They’d heard that New Chicago was like the metropolises of old, clean and safe and bursting with promise. Instead they found a ravaged place with peddlers selling maps to the city they’d just left.

  Tyler’s dream wasn’t to leave New Chicago. He knew there was nothing better for them out there. But there was something better in here: Garfield Park. Beyond its walls was a real city—safer, cleaner, better. To get in, though, you needed money. Lots of it.

  As Cole passed through the hope peddlers, he noticed a group gathered in front of one booth.

  “—guaranteed to ward off the infected,” the young woman was saying.

  She was about Tyler’s age—twenty-two—and dressed in not nearly enough, given the bitter wind driving off the river. That, Cole decided, explained her crowd.

  “—my friend Wally,” she continued, waving at a barely upright drunk beside her. “He was out there, beyond the city walls, for three days and not a single one of the infected bothered him. Why? Because he was wearing this.”

  Cole pressed into the crowd, as if straining to see what she held. His fingers slid into a man’s bulging jacket pocket. Out came a switchblade. Then he reached into a woman’s shopping bag and nicked two bruised apples. While the crowd absently shoved him back, he tucked his winnings under his jacket. Then he backed out and continued on.

  This part of the market was the best for lifting and picking. There were always crowds, and there were always distracted people, most who’d just finished their shopping farther up.

  If Tyler found out what Cole was doing, he’d get another lecture, this one about empathy. If they started stealing from other people, they were no better than the infected. But life here was a battle, and only the strongest would survive. Tyler knew that. He worked for Russ McClintock, the most feared man in New Chicago. Tyler wanted better for Cole, though. He always had. So he pretended he slung boxes and cleaned warehouses for McClintock, and Cole pretended he spent all day reading the books Tyler brought home. And both brothers slowly added to the small fortune they’d need to buy their way into Garfield Park.

  Cole was moving slowly past the peddlers’ booths, as if reluctantly being pulled along by some other task. You had to act as if you were just passing through so you didn’t catch the attention of the peddlers themselves, who hated anyone stealing from their marks before they could.

  Cole came through every other day and picked only four or five pockets before moving on. It helped that he was small for his sixteen years, average looking and clean. The “clean” part counted for a lot in New Chicago. Good water was so hard to come by, but Russ McClintock liked his employees to be shaven and scrubbed—it lifted them above the riffraff. So he had plenty of reasonably clean water, and he let Tyler bring Cole around for baths, in expectation of recruiting him someday.

  Cole was almost through the hope peddlers when he caught sight of something interesting. A man from Garfield Park. You could tell because his clothing didn’t look like it had been mended more than a time or two. Cole’s gaze slipped to the man’s right jacket pocket. It gaped open, ready for the picking. Unfortunately, the man looked uncomfortable here, his gaze darting about. Not an easy mark.

  The man finally found what he was looking for—an older man with a dragging leg, cheeks patchy with graying stubble, eyes dull with the “New Chicago look,” that empty gaze, expecting nothing. When the old man saw the guy from Garfield Park, he lifted a hand in greeting. The rich man’s eyes narrowed, as if thinking the old guy looked vaguely familiar. Then he nodded and approached. They exchanged a few words and headed toward an alley. Cole followed.

  He knew his way through the alleys around the market. Now, seeing where the two men were going, he skirted down a side road and came out near the end of their alley.

  “I remember you had an interest in special items, Mr. Murray,” the older man was saying, his voice a hoarse rumble. “A scholarly interest.”

  “If you summoned me here to sell me some cheap bauble—”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Murray. I know you’re a very busy man. This is something special. I’m told it’s well known in certain circles.”

  “Everything is well known in certain circles,” Murray snapped. “And almost all of it is as worthless as that crap they’re hawking out there, so if—”

  “It’s a monkey’s paw.”

  Silence. Cole inched toward the corner.

  “A what?” Murray said finally.

  Fabric rustled, as if the older man was pulling something from his pocket. Cole leaned around the corner. He could see the old man holding something, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

  “There’s a legend—” the old man began.

  Now it was Murray cutting him short. “I’ve heard it.”

  “Three wishes. They say the paw grants three wishes.”

  Murray snorted. “If it did, you wouldn’t be here trying to sell it to me.”

  “I … made mistakes,” the old man said. “I didn’t know you need to be very, very careful what you ask for. The gentleman who gave me the paw tried to explain, but I heard only the part about the wishes. He was a wealthy man I’d helped, as I used to help you. He wanted to help me in return. So he gave me this. He told me to take care, but I didn’t listen and I used up my wishes.”

  “And now you want to sell it to me?”

  The old man shook his head. “Not sell. Give it away, as it was given to me. That’s only right. You helped me, Mr. Murray, and I never thought I’d be able to properly thank you. But now I can.”

  “If you expect me to believe—”

  “Then don’t. It is, as I said, freely given. At worst, it would make an amusing addition to your collection.”

  Murray snorted again, but he dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. He took the paw. When the old man didn’t reach for the bills, Murray let them drop. Then he walked away.

  Cole ducked back as Murray passed, but the man was busy shoving the paw into his pocket.

  Cole looked down the alley. The old man was walking away. He’d left the bills on the ground.

  Cole slid soundlessly down the alley. When he reached the bills, the old man looked over his shoulder. Cole froze. He could easily scoop up the money and run, but too many of his brother’s teachings had stuck and instead he pointed down.

  “You dropped those, sir.”

  “Take them,” the old man sai
d.

  Cole hesitated, but the man seemed serious. Cole supposed Tyler would say it was the principle of the thing. The old man had tried to repay a debt, and if Murray was too uncouth to accept the gift, that was his problem.

  “Thanks,” Cole said. “Here.”

  He tossed one of his apples. The old man caught it and nodded, unsmiling. Then he continued on, dragging his bad leg behind him. Cole scooped up the cash and took off after Murray.

  Cole wanted that paw. He didn’t believe it had any special properties. There was no magic in this world. He wanted it because it would amuse Tyler. He’d tease Cole about it every time his little brother complained. You miss Pepsi and burgers, bud? Why don’t you ask the paw? Just be sure to ask carefully, or you’ll get rat and piss.

  Lately, making his brother laugh practically took magic. Hell, most people hadn’t found much to laugh about in ten years. Not since H2N3.

  H2N3. A boring name for what had, in the beginning, been a boring virus. People got it, they suffered through a mild flu, and they recovered. Then they’d get it again. And again and again. Traditional treatments didn’t work and the rate of spread was insane. Soon it was putting a massive strain on health care and workplaces across the world. Something had to be done. A vaccine had to be found. And one was.

  Later people would say that the vaccine testing process had been rushed, that the results were faked, that it was a conspiracy by the drug companies in collusion with the government. But Tyler said no—he remembered their parents nursing them through round after round of the flu, grumbling at the government to hurry up and approve the vaccine. Finally, people got it and everything seemed fine.

  Then the reports started coming in. Gangs of ordinary people roaming the streets, attacking passersby for pocket change. People on the subway being murdered for a sandwich or a cup of coffee. The victims who survived reported that it was like being savaged by a wild animal—clawing and biting and ripping. Then those who’d been bitten began to change, to become like their attackers.

  “It was a zombie apocalypse,” people said, “just like in the movies.” Which was crap. Cole had seen a zombie movie once, sneaking in when Tyler’s friends brought one over. The infected were not zombies. They hadn’t died; they weren’t rotting. They’d just changed. They’d become feral—that’s the word Tyler used. Whatever stops a hungry person from attacking a kid for an apple, that’s what the infection robbed from its victims.

  Ten years later, most of the population was infected. The rest had retreated to fortified cities like New Chicago. If there was any real hope left, it was that eventually the infected would annihilate themselves out there. But they sure weren’t hurrying to do it. In the cities, things weren’t much better, as the increasing shortage of food and clean water meant that you could still lose your life over an apple, murdered by a regular person who needed it to survive.

  In a world like that, if you could do something to lighten someone’s spirits, you did it. So Cole wanted that paw for Tyler.

  When Cole caught up, Murray was holding it again, looking down on it with distaste, as if he wanted to be rid of the thing.

  Just toss it in the trash, Cole thought. Or in the gutter.

  Murray paused outside a soup shop. The smell made Cole’s mouth water, but even with those bills in his pocket, he wasn’t tempted. Before Tyler worked for McClintock, he’d run errands for these shops—killing rats down at the river and digging rotted vegetables out of the market trash. That’s what you could expect from prepared food in New Chicago.

  Murray didn’t seem to know that. The rich scent of hot soup caught his attention, and he followed it to the shop door. Then he paused and fingered the paw.

  It’s dirty. Filthy, Cole thought. You’ll need to wash before you eat now. Just get rid of it.

  Murray shoved the paw into his pocket and walked inside.

  In the old days, this place wouldn’t have been considered a shop at all, much less a restaurant. Cole remembered restaurants. Fast food ones mostly. Sometimes, now, he’d wake thinking he smelled fries and it would set him in a lousy mood all day. Tyler would tease that, of all the things you could miss, fried potatoes should rank near the bottom. But they both knew it wasn’t really the fries—it was the idea that you could walk into a big, gleaming restaurant, scrub your hands with free soap and water, and order hot, safe food for less than half the twenty bucks your dad gave your brother when he decided to take you to the park that morning.

  This soup shop would have fit in one of those fast food restrooms. Hell, it probably had been the restroom for this place, once a big department store, the top two floors now destroyed in the bombings, the remainder divvied up into a score of tiny, dark “shops.” There were certainly no tables or chairs. You pushed your way up to the counter, got your soup, and pushed your way to a spot to eat it, standing. You could take it outside, but with November winds blowing through threadbare clothes, Cole suspected most patrons didn’t even really want the soup—it just gave them a chance to squeeze in someplace warm.

  Murray would take his soup and go—Cole could tell that by the contemptuous gazes the man shot around him. He even seemed to be reconsidering whether he wanted to remain long enough to get a meal. Cole had to act fast. He slid up behind Murray and got into position. Then, when a man left the counter, jostling and elbowing through the crowd, Cole knocked into Murray.

  Murray spun on him, scowling.

  “Sorry,” Cole said.

  He offered a chagrined smile. Murray muttered something, turned, and pushed his own way through the crowd, stalking out.

  Cole watched him go. Then he glanced down at the paw in his hand. He smiled, shoved it deep into his pocket, and made his way out.

  Tyler was in a foul mood, which was rare. It was usually Cole who grumbled while Tyler soldiered through. Today was different. Cole knew that as soon as he saw the candle burning.

  Tyler often joked that they had a penthouse apartment. Not only was it on the top floor, but they even had a second story. The roof had been blasted off, so their upper floor was four walls with no ceiling. Those walls, though, cut most of the wind and they could spend the daylight hours up there and save their candles and lantern oil. If Tyler was staying on the first floor and burning a candle mid-afternoon, something was wrong.

  “Where were you?” Tyler demanded as Cole crawled in.

  His brother was sitting on a chair—actually a crate, but they called them chairs. He was playing solitaire with a worn deck, slapping the cards down onto another crate, this one known as “the dining room table.”

  “Just walking. Getting some air.”

  “Did you finish your schoolwork?”

  “I read three chapters in history and two of Moby-Dick. I also swept and emptied the piss bucket, as you can see—and smell.”

  Tyler sighed and gathered up the cards. “Sorry, bud. Rough day.”

  “I see that. Catch.”

  He tossed Tyler the remaining apple. The corners of his brother’s mouth quirked. “Thanks.” He started to take a bite and stopped. “Do you have one?”

  “Already ate it.”

  “Are you sure? You need more fruits and vegetables. I—”

  “I ate one, Ty. Go ahead.”

  His brother worried that poor diet was the reason Cole was so small. He doubted it. He remembered kindergarten—his only year of school before the world went to hell. He’d been the smallest kid there, too. But Tyler still worried. Some days, Cole thought that was the only thing keeping his brother going—worries and problems and the faint hope that he could fix them.

  Tyler didn’t ask where the apple came from. Cole was in charge of the money and the shopping. Tyler considered it a practical application of his math lessons, which made it easy for Cole to sneak extra cash into the kitty and put extra food on the table.

  Tyler took a bite of the apple, snuffed out the candle, and waved for them to go upstairs, where they pulled pillows and thick old blankets out of a box. Cu
shioned and bundled against the cold, they rested, enjoying the faint warmth of the late-day sun.

  “So what happened at work?” Cole asked.

  “Same shit, different day.” Tyler paused and then looked over. “When you were out, did you hear anything? Rumors? News?”

  “Like what?”

  Another pause, longer now, until Cole pressed.

  “They say one of the infected got in,” Tyler said.

  “Again? What’s that? Third time this month?”

  “Yeah. It’s getting worse. They always catch them, but the fact that they’re getting in … ” Tyler shook his head. “Just … be careful, okay? When you’re out?”

  “I always am.”

  After a moment, Tyler asked, “So, how much money do we have so far?”

  He said it casually, just an offhand question, but Cole knew it wasn’t offhand at all. This was what was really bothering his brother—that the situation in New Chicago seemed to worsen so much faster than their stash grew.

  “Four hundred and sixty-eight dollars to go,” Cole said.

  Tyler swore.

  “We’ll make it,” Cole said. “Less than a year, I bet.”

  “I used to earn that much in a month, mowing lawns. Then I’d blow it on video games and movies.”

  “We’ll get there.”

  Silence fell for at least five minutes. Then, without looking over, Tyler said, “We have enough to get you in.”

  “No.”

  “But we could—”

  “No. We go together, or we stay together. If you want to make money faster, let me work. McClintock offered me a job—”

  “No.”

  “But if I was working, we’d have enough by—”

  “No.”

  And there was the impasse. Cole wouldn’t go without Tyler, and Tyler wouldn’t let him work for McClintock. Cole’s “job” was studying. There were real careers in Garfield Park, like in the old days—doctors and businessmen and teachers. Most kids Cole’s age couldn’t even read and write. That would give him an advantage, Tyler said. Cole couldn’t see how taking a few months off would make much difference, but he knew it wasn’t really about that. It was about Cole staying away from McClintock and the life he offered.