Necropolis

by Michael Dempsey

  No one really knew why the public singled out Maury’s as the Shift’s ground zero. Certainly the government never knew. Their vague report (see “SHIFT COMMISSION: REPORT TO THE PRESIDENT) stated that it was “likely that the effect began within a ten-block radius of Rockefeller Park.”

  It was probably because the owner, Maurice Rosenberg, was regarded to have been the first person to revive. Whether folklore or truth, the story was as comic as it was horrible. He’d been run down in the street in front of his own deli—killed by an old woman who, courtesy of the vagaries of the Department of Motor Vehicles, still drove her Crown Victoria battle cruiser despite an acute case of senile dementia.

  The neighborhood mourned Maury’s death.

  The next day, however, Maury was back. He was reputed to have sat up on the mortician’s table and barked, “Helen, gimme two pounds of lox from the walk-in!” This was not confirmed. The mortician dropped dead at the sight and never came back.

  So Maury’s Deli became the place where “God’s wrath was felt.” That God chose an agnostic Jew as the herald of that wrath didn’t matter much to believers.

  Ender theology was diverse. As many as twenty-three distinct “denominations” were documented, all with varying dogmas. But some core tenets were shared by all: The Shift was a supernatural event, God’s punishment, and it heralded the End-Times. Depending on the Ender group, this would culminate in: Christ’s return, the advent of the Jewish Messiah, the triumph of Islam over the infidel, or universal Nirvana. Despite their Buddhist-looking robes and shaved heads, Jonathan’s denomination actually had more in common theologically with Orthodox Judaism.

  The Shift didn’t kill the old religions outright. The resurrection motifs in many traditions helped keep a lot of panicked people in their pews. Christians, for instance, had many Biblical precedents. Oh, they had to reframe the pesky parts that no longer fit. For example, evangelicals stuttered a bit when the dead started rising before the Rapture. Where was the Antichrist? Armageddon? Those who’d hung their world on this detailed chronology were disturbed. Not to worry, came the purred response, followed by a thousand re-interpretations. The important thing was, get your affairs in order and send a check today! Many didn’t bite. The dead weren’t being raised in eternal heavenly bodies. They were walking around downtown looking for work.

  For the atheists, the Shift was their trump card. The evidence was in, baby. The Shift was real, and it was science not God. The Universe was a series of random physical actions and reactions. But take heart, they said. Because if the Shift’s Author had really been supernatural, He was more than vengeful. He was plain crazy.

  Other voices rose, radical voices, issued from minds that could not accept a random Universe. Society was corrupt and existing religions were blasphemy. It was their duty to destroy them, to serve God in his wrath. It was the same old war cry dressed in new duds—others had screwed things up, not us! Anyone who harbored hatred or fear was welcome, because the time had come to kick ass and take names in a brand new holy book.

  It was surreal to see riots between Catholics and Enders, Jews and Enders, see dogma pitted against dogma, zealot against zealot, out in the streets with clubs and fists and guns. If the fence-straddlers had been undecided before, their distrust of religion was quickly cemented into permanence by these acts. Most people quietly backed away from anything with a mosque dome or church spire.

  The first major domestic Ender terrorist action was the simultaneous destruction of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the main branch of the New York Public Library. The Pope was a pig, they screamed, and science was a graven idol. Surazal was quick to respond. The most virulent strains of the End-timers were wiped out in brutal attacks. The news channels were full of Blackhawk helicopters patrolling the streets. The churches that were spared were forced to take strict oaths of nonviolence. By the time the dust settled, the old denominations had withered into tiny, huddled enclaves, the radicals were underground, and watered-down, neutered churches like the Enders were all that was left of the new religions.

  Now the Church of the Holy Epicenter looked more like an AA hall than a traditional sanctuary. No stained glass, golden statues, artwork or hymns. A simple podium, folding chairs, a leaky baptismal—that was it. There were still grooves in the linoleum where Maury’s deli cases had once sat. The only eternal thing here was the faint smell of pastrami.

  32

  JONATHAN

  “Well, I don’t know about this separation and impermanence idea that Maggie was talking about,” Jonathan said slowly. “But I believe God sees our true hearts. It’s why he has so much forgiveness. Humans are so fragile, so lost, so misunderstanding.”

  Donner clasped his hands beneath his lowered head. The garden was empty besides them.

  “She was getting ready.”

  “Elise?”

  His voice was low. “I just couldn’t see it.”

  “Because of the drinking,” Jonathan said.

  “The drinking was just a symptom. She left me because I wasn’t able to grow up fast enough.” He looked at Jonathan with an anguish that shocked him. “How can a man be a hardened cop, live in those streets, do the things he has to do, and still be a child inside?”

  “One has very little to do with the other. But what you’re saying, I think, is that had the murders not happened, you still would have lost her. Dead or alive, she’d have been gone. Hector took your lives, but not your marriage. You and Elise did that.”

  Donner threw his fists open. “If Maggie is right, was that old man Hector even the same person as the kid who killed us forty years ago? Was I looking to extract my vengeance, in sense, on the wrong person?”

  “Hector had to live with what he’d done his entire life. In my book, that’s hell. Maybe he’d already been punished enough.”

  “Maybe we’ve all been punished enough.”

  Jonathan moved next to Donner on the bench. “I think it’s time you let go of all the what-ifs and if-onlys. Acknowledge that you’re flawed like everyone else and that, for all your mistakes, you’re doing the best you can. Vow not to make the same mistakes and to stay committed to ‘growing up,’ as you put it.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “In my opinion, there’s only one thing worth doing in this life. The only thing that matters.”

  “Father, if you say bingo, I may have to slug you.”

  Jonathan laughed. “You didn’t become a cop for the paycheck, Donner. And you’re not one of those rageaholics who uses their badge as a license to hurt. You wanted to make a difference, to help people. You suffered through the job for a long time because of that. Okay, booze was a crappy coping mechanism. But there are people out there who still need you, Donner. They need your experience and your brains and your courage. And helping them in return may bring you the one thing you need most of all.”

  “What’s that, Padre?”

  “Hope.”

  33

  MAGGIE

  Finally, when Maggie couldn’t stand it any longer, she appeared to Donner. He was at a battered wood table, shoveling oatmeal into his face.

  She flashed a grin. “Hey, baby. How’s tricks?” Meant to sound jaunty, it came out hollow as a campaign promise.

  Donner looked up, his mouth full. “Maggie.”

  “You look better,” she said.

  He finished chewing. “Liar.”

  “No, really.” She bobbed her head. “Be patient.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Oh, you know. Here and there.” She crossed her arms to suppress the urge to fidget. “The truth is, I thought you wouldn’t be so hot to see me.”

  “Because you beat it from the lab?”

  She looked away. Donner laid his spoon down on the table. Light bounced into her eyes from its silver handle. “I suppose I was, at first.” He looked her up and down, frankly appraising her hair, her features, her figure. She felt warm. “It’d be stupid to die with me,” he said. “You made the smart
play.” But his voice was flat.

  A pause. “Donner, it… hurt me. What happened.”

  “Which part? Lying to me or letting me walk into a trap?”

  Her composure went out of her like she’d been sucker-punched. “That’s not fair.”

  “Is that what you deserve? Fair?”

  “You said you weren’t mad.”

  “I’m not mad. It doesn’t change what happened.”

  “What do you want? An apology?”

  “I want answers, Mag.”

  “I thought Armitage—”

  “About you.”

  “Oh.” She chewed the edge of her lip. “It’s complicated.”

  “Give me the CliffsNotes version.”

  She shook her hair. The dark curls flipped back. She ran her fingertips up her pale neck nervously, as if needing the reassurance of her solidity. She could feel his eyes on her legs, and she wondered why she had manifested in such a tight skirt. She dropped into the wooden chair opposite him. Crossed her legs. Re-crossed them.

  “When you first revived, the Cadre assigned me to be your shadow.”

  “Why?”

  “Possible recruitment, same as any reborn. My job as a counselor puts me in a unique position. The reborns that fit our profile became possible recruits.”

  “The misfits, you mean.”

  She frowned. “The ones who weren’t sheep.”

  “Are there many smarties in the Cadre?”

  “I’m the only one.”

  He found that interesting.

  “Each cell is unaware of the others,” she continued. “In case we’re caught.”

  “So, basically, I was disposable.”

  He was going hard on her. He’d been played and needed to know where the lies ended. Where he could now put his trust.

  “You want to know the truth? With the drinking, the self-pity, I was ready to write you off at first.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Miss Nicole happened. Her little visit.”

  “Ah.” Donner smiled. “Armitage must’ve done a back flip.”

  “We didn’t know what she wanted. But we were looking for Crandall, too. So we—”

  “Let me do my thing, oblivious that I was being manipulated from both sides.”

  Her sigh came out as a hiss between her teeth. “I could give you a million excuses, Donner. But keeping you in the dark was the best way to keep you productive.”

  “There’s that smarty efficiency,” he said. Donner stabbed the oatmeal with his spoon. It stuck straight up. “Needs more milk.”

  “Milk’s hard to come by right now.”

  He pushed the bowl aside. “Why’d Armitage expose himself by snatching me?”

  “It wouldn’t have been in character for me to help you into the lab. That left him.”

  “But you showed up at the lab anyway.”

  “Yeah.” Another sigh. “I wasn’t supposed to do that.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Worried that I’d get caught? Give you up?”

  She winced to let him know his barbs were drawing blood. “That you’d get hurt, Paul.”

  In the stark basement light, she couldn’t tell if he was smiling or grimacing. “So you’re on the lam, now, huh? Cover’s blown?”

  Her eyes looked sad. “You know, I miss the job. I thought it’d be a relief—no more double life. But I did a lot of good.”

  “For the sheep, you mean.”

  “Not everyone can be special.”

  “Maggie the revolutionary. What happened to all that talk about letting go of things?”

  “You let go of what you can’t control. You change what you can.”

  “So why am I here, Maggie?”

  She looked at the tips of her shoes. Why’d she wear heels? She hated heels. “You’re a valuable asset,” she said softly. Heels made her legs look better in a tight skirt, that’s why.

  “I’m a liability. Why did Armitage go to all the trouble of bringing me back?”

  She wanted to dissolve, become someone else, anyone but this stupid, obvious female. She saw his lips twitch as he understood. He leaned back, pressing his palms onto the table.

  “You did it,” he said. “Without permission.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks. “Yeah, well, you were such a snappy dresser, you know, the way you pulled that hat down over one eye—”

  “Maggie.”

  She was a rube. For all her smarty detachment, she was a tongue-tied teenager. “Don’t you love how life throws you those little curves?” she said.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Wouldn’t have worked anyway. A computer program and a dead guy…” The heat was behind her eyes now, and she was shocked to discover that she was on the verge of tears.

  “Look, I—” he said.

  “Just don’t, okay? Just don’t.”

  They sat like that. Somewhere, a water pipe rattled. Donner looked at her miserable face, her furrowed brow. And did the last thing she expected. He snorted a laugh.

  “What?” she barked.

  “Sorry.”

  He tried to stop, but his face wouldn’t quite straighten.

  “Oh great,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Make fun of the infatuated smarty.”

  Another snort.

  “You louse!”

  “But you’re—”

  “If you say I’m cute, I’ll kill you,” she said.

  He held it in for a moment, silent.

  “Computer program and a dead guy?” he said, and this time Maggie brayed a short laugh in spite of herself.

  34

  DONNER

  Light spilled down the steps from above. I motioned for Maggie to compose herself. Armitage thumped partially down and paused grumpily. “Alright, cut the comedy.”

  Behind him, Pastor Jonathan wore burgundy vestments. Pulling up the rear were Max and Tippit, stoic in gabardine and gray flannel. The gaggle trouped down and stood there, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light.

  “Nice suits,” I said, meaning it.

  Max adjusted his tie defensively. “Thanks.” It sounded like it hurt him to say it.

  Armitage pulled his hat off and batted the brim. “Pouring out there,” he said. “I swear, the Umbrella Lobby’s paying off the damned Blister techs.” He shrugged out of his slick trench coat and laid it on a crate. “Ready to continue our conversation?”

  I waved at the wooden chairs stacked in the corner. Armitage snapped one open. Jonathan sank cross-legged onto a crate and the Bookend Brothers settled back on their heels. Armitage showed me his palms.

  “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  I’d done the math. It might’ve bruised my ego to get used, but in their shoes I might’ve done the same thing. As Bart used to say, the stakes call the play. And the stakes here were off the chart. “What’s the phrase?” I said. “Necessity makes strange bedfellows?”

  Armitage didn’t look receptive, but he didn’t look hostile either, so I continued. “Let’s review,” I said. “Crandall’s team was working with Shift DNA to develop a drug.”

  “Two drugs,” he said.

  “Two drugs?”

  “Controlled precipitors of the Shift’s major effects. Retrozine-A reverses the aging process in normal humans. Retrozine-B revives the dead.”

  “Guess I’m proof the Retrozine-B works.”

  “Living proof,” said Max. Tippit tried not to giggle.

  “Nicole will turn the city upside down,” I said. “A monopoly on those drugs is their leverage. They’re no good to Surazal if everybody has them.”

  “Leverage for what?” asked Jonathan, still wiping the moisture from his shaved head.

  “These drugs give Surazal control over life and death,” said Armitage. “Exclusive control.”

  The room was suddenly very silent.

  Jonathan shivered. “Who do we think we are?”

  “The same creatures we’ve always been,” I spa
t. “Brainy chimps with too much curiosity and not enough humility.”

  “We’re not animals,” Jonathan protested. “We’re people.”

  “People,” I said. “People who give each other poison-laced Kool-Aid to drink. People who blow each other up or gas each other or shoot their classmates at school. People who eat caviar while their neighbors starve to death three blocks away.”

  Everybody’s eyes were a little too wide, so I shut my clam.

  “Imagine you’re a banker, a judge, a senator,” said Armitage. “A president. How often will you cross the only person in the universe who can make you twenty again, forever?”

  “How much do they want? They already run New York,” said Maggie.

  “With her type, there’s always more,” I said. “Once they’ve got all the pieces of the pie, they want the bakery.”

  “Enough sociology,” said Armitage. “Someone besides us is working against her. Killing her research team.”

  “You killed Crandall,” said Max to me.

  “I aimed at Nicole. Lady moves fast for a skirt.”

  “Hey,” said Maggie, bristling. A couple laughs. She realized I’d baited her and shot me a dirty look.

  “So who’s her enemy?”

  “Nicole didn’t share.”

  Armitage pulled his pipe from his coat. The bowl was elaborately carved. It seemed too showy for the man, somehow. He sniffed it. “This adversary of hers could be an ally.”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” I said. “Maybe. He’s a pro, though. Each murder had a different M.O., and none had witnesses.”

  “What about the merc, McDermott? Could he be back?”