by Dan Wells
Afa was still screaming, sobbing hysterically, but at least he was still alive. She cast her eyes around the kitchen, searching for anything she could use—towels to wipe them dry or food to calm them down—and saw that the sink had two faucets, a normal one and a strange, industrial hand pump. She stared at it, caught by the incongruity, and then it dawned on her.
“This is a farmhouse!” she shouted, rushing toward the cupboards. “They have a well!”
“What?” asked Heron.
“They’re too far out of town for the normal water system, so they have well water—their own aquifer deep underground, and their own pump to work it.” She clattered in the cupboards, finding the biggest bucket she could and rushing it to the sink. “There are a couple of these on farms back home, and they’re the only running water on the island. These pumps are completely self-contained, so they should still work.” She worked the handle, but it was stiff and dry; she threw open the refrigerator, found a jar of rancid pickles, and poured the pungent juice down the pump to prime it. She worked it again, up and down, up and down; Heron joined her, and suddenly the water came gushing out into the pot. Kira filled it while Heron grabbed another, and when it was filled they picked it up together and threw the water at the horses, washing some of the acid away. They pumped again, repeating the process, throwing bucket after bucket at the horses until Kira was sure the well would run dry. Little by little the horses calmed, the acid washed off their backs, and the two girls ran in to cut Afa loose and drag him, still sobbing, to the kitchen. His clothes, still on him, were nearly eaten away, and his back was a mass of welts and burns and blisters. Heron pumped another bucket of water, and Kira went back to the horses to unbuckle the saddles and bags and pull out the medicine. Afa was too hoarse now to scream, and only rocked back and forth on the floor; Samm looked unconscious, or deep in meditation to control the pain, and Kira wondered how damaged his eyes really were. She paused, exhausted, and looked at Heron.
Heron looked back, just as drained, and shook her head. “You still think we made the right decision, Kira?”
No, thought Kira, but she forced herself to say “Yes.”
“You’d better hope so,” said Heron. “We’re only about twenty miles into this toxic wasteland. We’ve got another seven hundred to go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Marcus and the soldiers traveled north, through the ruins of Jersey City and Hoboken and the vast metropolitan cityscape west of the Hudson River. Their plan was to swing wide around any hostile Partial lookouts hiding in Manhattan or the Bronx, and this required them to go much farther north than they strictly needed to, just to find a way back across the Hudson River. North of Manhattan it widened significantly, becoming more of a bay than a river, and the bridge they finally found crossed it at nearly its longest point: a white needle through the sky called the Tappan Zee Bridge. It was newer than any bridge Marcus had seen before, and he guessed it had been recently rebuilt sometime just before the Break. It was miles long, and took nearly a full day’s march to cross. That it had survived at all was amazing; that it had survived in nearly perfect condition was a testament to the glories of the old world. It made him wonder if future generations, assuming they ever had any, would look at this impossible architectural feat with the same awe and reverence as the pyramids, or the Great Wall of China. A pathway through the sky. They’ll probably come up with some ridiculous religious explanation for it, he thought, like we built it as a road to get to heaven, and each pillar represents some aspect of our belief, and the length of the bridge times the height is the sign of the vernal equinox. The bridge was covered with cars, many of them crashed or sideways or strewn together into arcane patterns, and they had to move slowly through the mess, stopping and starting and climbing over the hot metal relics as they baked in the sun.
The city on the far side of the river was called Tarrytown, and as they followed the bridge down toward the surface streets a loud voice rang out through the ruins.
“Stop!”
The soldiers raised their rifles, but Commander Woolf gestured for them to put them back down. “We mean no harm!” he said loudly, answering back. “We’re here to talk!”
“You’re humans,” said the voice, and Woolf nodded, gripping his rifle by the barrel and holding it up in the air, demonstrating as clearly as possible that he was not holding it near the trigger.
“Our guns are for defense only,” he said. “We’re not looking for a fight. We want to talk to whoever’s in charge.”
There was a long silence, and when the voice shouted back, Marcus thought it sounded . . . hesitant.
“State your purpose.”
“A Partial by the name of Morgan has attacked our settlement and taken our people hostage, and we know she’s your enemy as much as she is ours. We have an old human saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ We’re kind of hoping that makes us friendly enough to talk for a minute.”
There was another long pause, and then the voice said, “Put your weapons on the ground and step away from them.”
“Do as he says,” said Woolf, bending down to place his rifle on the ground. Marcus did the same, and all around him the other soldiers followed suit, some more reluctantly than others. There were ten of them, plus Woolf and Marcus, but the three Partials who emerged and walked up the bridge to meet them seemed confident that they were more than a match for twelve humans. Marcus agreed with them. The lead Partial was a young man, Samm’s age, though Marcus realized that this was only natural: The Partial infantry were all the same age, frozen at eighteen years old. I guess we’ll meet the generals once we get into White Plains.
“My name is Vinci,” said the Partial, and Marcus recognized the voice as the man who’d been shouting to them a few minutes ago.
“We want to talk about a treaty,” said Woolf. “An alliance between our people and yours.”
If Vinci was surprised he didn’t show it, though Marcus had always found the Partials hard to read. The man glanced over their group, then looked back at Woolf. “I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
Marcus started in surprise.
“Just like that?” asked Woolf. “You’ll hear us, but you won’t even think about what we say?”
“It’s not my place to think about it,” said Vinci. “I’m a rearguard watchman, not a general or a diplomat.”
“Then take us to the generals and diplomats,” said Woolf. “Take us to someone who can hear us out.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that either,” said Vinci.
“Are you not allowed to let us into your territory?” asked Woolf. “Then send a messenger—we’ll camp here, we’ll camp on the bridge if that’s better for you—but tell someone in charge that we’re here, and what we’re offering. At least do that much.”
Vinci paused again, thinking, though Marcus couldn’t tell if he was thinking about agreeing or just trying to come up with another way of saying no.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, “it’s simply too dangerous right now. The war with Morgan’s forces is . . .” He paused, as if looking for the right words. “Spiraling out of control.”
“We’re willing to risk it,” said Marcus.
“We’re not,” said Vinci.
“Why won’t you at least hear us out?” cried Woolf, stepping forward, and suddenly the Partials swung their weapons up. Woolf was practically seething, and Marcus could tell that he was on the verge of starting a fight and hoping he had enough guys left to look for someone more helpful. Marcus racked his brain for something he could do to defuse the situation; he thought about Samm, and the way he had talked, and the things that did and didn’t work with him. He had been unerringly pragmatic, and almost helplessly loyal to his leaders, even when he disagreed with them. Marcus thought back over everything, and leapt in front of Woolf right as the old man seemed to be about to make a move.
“Wait,” said Marcus nervously, half expecting to get punched—from in front or from behind. “My name’s Marcus Va
lencio,” he said. “I’m kind of the designated ‘Partials relations consultant’ around here.” He said it as much for Woolf’s benefit as for the Partials, hoping it would slow them down and give him a chance to talk. “If you’ll permit me to ask a politically sensitive question, what do you mean when you say you can’t help us?”
“He means he won’t help us,” said Woolf.
Vinci didn’t answer, but after a moment he nodded.
“See, I don’t think that’s actually the problem,” said Marcus. Vinci was already looking at him, but now he focused in on Marcus with his full, laserlike attention, and Marcus was all too aware of the difference in intensity. He smiled nervously, assuring himself that this predatory look on the man’s face was a sign that Marcus was right: There was indeed a secret here, and Vinci was too loyal to ever admit it.
“You’re dying,” said Marcus. “Not you personally, at least not yet, but your people. Your leaders. Every Partial has a twenty-year expiration date, and you didn’t learn this until the first ones died, and by now you’ve lost a second or third or maybe even a fourth generation of Partials, and if I’m guessing correctly, that includes almost all your generals. Everyone in charge.”
Vinci didn’t agree, but he didn’t deny it. Marcus watched his face for any change of emotion or expression, but they had such emotionless faces he couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. He kept talking.
“I think what you’re saying,” Marcus finished, “is that we can’t broker an alliance because there’s nobody left in their nation with enough authority to broker one.”
The group was silent. Marcus kept his eyes on Vinci’s face, not daring to look behind himself for Woolf’s reaction. The old man let out a breath and spoke softly. “Good heavens, son, if that’s your problem, let us help—”
“We don’t need your help,” said Vinci.
“You’re a nation without a leader,” said Woolf, “a nation of young men—”
“Young men who defeated you,” said Vinci hotly, “and who will do it again if you give us any reason to.”
“This is not what I was trying to do,” said Marcus, stepping back in between them. He knew he was cringing, preemptively flinching from an attack he was certain would come from one side or the other, but he stood there anyway, grimacing and hoping they’d stay calm. “Vinci, my commanding officer here did not mean to imply that you were incapable of making your own decisions, and that you need an old human dude to step in and run things for you.” He looked pointedly at Woolf. “He knows exactly how offensive that would be, and he would never say it or imply it. Right?”
Woolf nodded, somewhat sheepishly, but Marcus could hear his teeth grinding as he spoke. “Absolutely. I did not mean to offend you.”
“Sweet,” said Marcus, and glanced at Vinci before looking back at Woolf. “Next, and furthermore: Commander Woolf, Vinci here did not mean to imply that help was out of the question entirely, or that he would sooner start another genocidal war than form an alliance with you.”
“You don’t speak for him,” said Woolf.
Marcus turned to Vinci. “Am I wrong? You didn’t actually mean to imply anything even remotely like that, did you? I mean, you know how similarly offensive that would be, right?”
Vinci took a deep breath, the first social clue Marcus had seen from him yet, and shook his head. “We don’t want another war with the humans.”
“Sweet baby James,” said Marcus. “Now do you think you two can carry on a civil conversation, or do I have to mediate the entire thing? Because I’m seriously on the verge of peeing myself here.”
Vinci looked at Woolf. “This is your Partials relations consultant?”
“He’s unorthodox but effective,” said Woolf. He rubbed his chin. “Is what he said right, though? That your commanding officers are all dead?”
“Not all,” said Vinci, and Marcus could tell from his pause that he didn’t want to say the next part: “But most of them, yes. We have one left. As you likely gleaned from our operations on Long Island, we’re locked in a small-scale war with Morgan’s faction; we’re trying to cure this expiration date, as you call it, just like she is. But her methods have become too extreme.”
“But time is running out,” said Marcus. “We think that we can help you—we have some of the best medical minds on Earth, literally, slaving over the cure to our own extinction-level disease. With your help we can solve the RM problem in a matter of weeks, or at least we think we can, and then all that medical mind power can point straight at your expiration date. We can save each other.”
“But we need to talk to this leader you spoke about,” said Woolf. “Can you take us to him or her?”
“I can take you to her,” said Vinci, “but I can’t guarantee it will do any good.”
Woolf frowned. “Is she dying, too? Is it”—he struggled for words—“her time?”
“She’s a member of the Trust,” said Vinci. “They’re our leaders, and as far as we can tell, they don’t expire. But General Trimble is . . . well, you’ll see. Follow me, but leave your weapons. And it’s dangerous, like I said: No offense, but a group of humans are nothing but dead weight on a Partial battlefield. If you see or hear anything remotely like gunfire, hide.”
Woolf frowned. “Just hide? That’s it?”
Vinci shrugged. “Well, hide and pray.”
White Plains was like nothing Marcus had ever seen before, though the ride in should have prepared him: They didn’t hike in or ride on a wagon, they rode in the back of a truck. A real truck, with an engine. The driver was a Partial named Mandy, presumably one of the pilots Samm had told them about, and she eyed them suspiciously all the way into town, despite the fact that they’d been disarmed and searched and even stripped of most of their gear. Marcus had seen self-propelled vehicles in action before, of course, but to see them used so casually was astonishing. In East Meadow they used them for emergencies only, when speed was paramount. Here they just drove around like it was nothing.
Then they passed another truck on a crossroad, and then another.
Then they got to the city itself.
Marcus had spent so much time in the ruins of a city that seeing one in prime condition was shocking, and somehow disturbing. Instead of pedestrians the streets were full of cars; instead of lamps and candles the homes were lit with electrical light—porch lights, streetlights, ceiling lights, even light-up signs on the buildings. The entire city seemed to glow with them. More subtly, but more confounding once he noticed it, the buildings all had windows. Windows had been one of the first things to go after the Break, with freeze-thaw cycles shifting the frames of unheated buildings, and flocks of birds and other animals finishing off the rest. In East Meadow only the populated homes had windows, and the bottom few floors of the hospital where they worked to maintain them, but everywhere else they were broken. Nearly every window they’d passed in Brooklyn, Manhattan, and New Jersey had been broken. But not here. It was like a city from before the Break, pulled forward in time, untouched by the apocalypse that had destroyed the rest of the world.
But even that, Marcus told himself, wasn’t quite true. The Partials were an army, and this was a city at war, without a civilian in sight. Except me, he thought. I’m the first noncombatant this city’s seen in twelve years.
I hope I can stay a noncombatant long enough to finish this job and get out of here.
Mandy drove them to a large building in the center of town, ringed with sandbag barricades and topped with searchlights and snipers. The mood was dark, and every Partial soldier seemed to be watching for something—an attack, most likely, though Marcus couldn’t help but worry about what could make even the Partials look so nervous. Vinci led them in, explaining to each new layer of security—and there were several—that he was bringing an envoy from the humans to talk with General Trimble, and that he had already confiscated their weapons. Marcus felt, inversely, less safe with each new level of guards and protocols, as if they were walking into a
prison instead of a government building. Running lights glowed softly in the walls and ceiling, giving the place an unearthly feel that only heightened his anxiety. Vinci brought them to a large room on the top floor, a kind of plaza with benches and low tables, ringed with apartments and topped by a wide, latticed skylight. A guard behind them locked the door to the outer hall.
“This is where you’ll stay,” said Vinci. “It’s not the best accommodations, but on reflection, probably better than what you’re used to.”
“No question about that,” said Marcus. “Where’s the chocolate fountain? I’m honestly going to be a little disappointed if it’s not strapped to the back of an enchanted polar bear.”
“We’re not here to stay,” said Woolf. “We’re here to meet with Trimble. Is she here?”
Vinci shook his head. “She’s busy,” said Vinci. “Just wait here.”
“Wait how long?” asked Marcus. “An hour? Two hours?”
One of the outer doors opened, revealing a small but tidy apartment beyond, and a woman stepped out eagerly. Her face fell when she saw them. “You’re not Trimble’s men?”
“You’re not Trimble?” Woolf asked her. He looked at Vinci. “What’s going on here?”
“I’ve been waiting since yesterday,” said the woman. She walked toward them, and Marcus guessed that she was somewhere in her late fifties—still fit and attractive, as all Partials apparently were, but not one of the young-looking pilots like Mandy, or the supermodel serial killers or whatever Heron was. That meant, as far as Marcus knew, that this woman was a doctor, and he stuck out his hand to shake.
“Hello, Doctor.”
She didn’t take his hand, only looked at them sternly. “You’re humans.”
“You’ve been waiting since yesterday?” asked Woolf. He turned on Vinci. “Morgan is killing our people—we are dying, in war and in hospitals, every day. Every hour. You have to get us in sooner.”
“But not before me,” said the Partial doctor. “We all have business that can’t be delayed.” She looked at Vinci. “Are you her assistant? Can you get her a message?”