Orlando Zhang
IN THE MORNING, ORY WOKE TO THE SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS, scrambling on crumbling asphalt.
“Max?” he called hoarsely. He crawled out from the rubble in the building across from their old home, where he’d hidden himself overnight. “Max?”
It wasn’t Max. He caught sight of a foot as its owner rounded the corner away from him at a sprint. There had been no shadow attached, but it had been a man’s foot, not a woman’s. Then another shadowless ran past, at such speed he again caught almost no details—just whipping legs, a low crouch, and fading echoes.
Ory waited until it was quiet again and then crept into the street. What was that about? he wondered. Busy areas never meant anything good anymore. But the question was whether they were running to something—or from it. He edged around the corner and into the wreckage of the intersection to see if he could find where they’d gone.
“Don’t move!” someone shouted. Ory scrambled, grabbing for a gun he no longer had. A dark man in army fatigues and a bike helmet jerked into a dodge, as if expecting him to throw a blade, and then aimed a shotgun of his own at Ory.
They both stared at each other in shock for a few seconds, then stared at each other’s feet, at what trailed beneath. He has a shadow, Ory thought, at the same moment that the stranger realized the same about him as well.
“Brother,” the man finally said. The gun dropped—a relieved smile broke out across his face. “What the hell are you doing with that?”
Ory looked down at his chest and touched his shirt, where the man was pointing. The last tatters of his maroon windbreaker hung there, wet and sooty. Only half the red letters from the giant STAFF word above the Elk Cliffs Resort logo remained. “I don’t understand,” Ory said, but the man wasn’t listening anymore. His expression changed.
“Get down!” he cried.
They both threw themselves against the row of sand-filled garbage bins in front of them as a rock ricocheted off the top and spun into little sharp flakes. Another hit, spraying stone chips past their faces as it exploded. “What’s happening?” Ory shouted.
“Deal went bad today,” the dark man yelled over the pounding stones. “The Red King tried to pass off four copies of the same thing. Impossible to explain it to them—four of the same book doesn’t equal four books. Now we’re skirmishing again. The red . . .”—he touched the front of Ory’s windbreaker—“that’s what I mean. Enemy colors!” Another barrage scattered across the top of the garbage cans. It’s a barricade line, Ory realized. Someone had built upright trenches along the length of his old street. “Last time this happened, they burned a whole pile in protest—that was bloody. Let’s hope they’re too desperate for food or medicine to try that again.”
“What are you talking about?” Ory cried.
“The war!” he shouted back.
“What war?”
“The—” The man paused. “What do you mean, ‘What war?’ Where are you from?”
“Arlington,” Ory answered.
“Arlington!” the man cried. Ory could tell by his expression he was expecting Ory to have named a neighborhood within walking distance, maybe an outer suburb. The Forgetting had changed the meaning of the word far. “You crossed the river?” he asked. They both ducked as a rock went sailing overhead. “You’ve got balls, brother.”
“Li,” Ory gave his middle name, just in case.
“Li,” he confirmed. “Malik—James Malik.” He took his bike helmet off his head. Sweat gleamed across the shaved, deep brown skin. He handed it to Ory. “You wear that. I’ll get another one; we have more back in the armory. That’s where the new recruits go to get kitted up.”
“No, uh—” Ory tried to collect himself. “I’m here looking for my wife.”
Malik studied him for a moment, conflicted over what to do with him if he wasn’t a recruit for whatever this war was. “I don’t know if I can help with that,” he finally said. He pushed the helmet on Ory anyway. “But she’s definitely not here. This is the front lines,” he continued, gesturing with his chin at the path the rock had just sailed through in the air above their heads. “You know Logan Circle?”
“Yeah,” Ory said. “P Street?”
“P and Thirteenth.” Malik nodded. “The Iowa—old luxury condominiums. It’s impossible to find anyone anymore, but if you’re going to try, you should start there. The General might be able to help, in exchange for some help from you.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. The first one Ory had. “Shadowed people are in the Iowa?”
“Almost forty. It’s our headquarters.”
There was a momentary break in the flying rocks. Malik jammed two fingers under his lip and whistled sharply. A few seconds later, a thud scattered concrete dust behind them, and a tan, black-haired woman in similar tattered fatigues was now crouched there. Her shadow hunkered down with her, eagle-nosed, thin. Ory stared openmouthed. It was like a real army. An army of people who remembered.
“Ahmadi, this is Li; Li, this is Naz Ahmadi,” Malik said. “Li’s a newcomer from Arlington. I’m taking him to meet the General. Hold the line ’til I get back.”
“Brother.” Ahmadi nodded to Ory. Her grip on his hand was tight—so tight Ory knew she was as happy to see another shadowed person as he was—but she was polite enough to ignore his gaping stare at meeting not one, but two other shadowed humans until he’d shut his mouth and shook her hand back. When they let go, she rattled off a snippet of directions to Malik in a faint, musical accent. “Take Tenth back. A bunch of Reds just scrambled out on G.”
“Thanks,” he said, and saluted Ahmadi. She saluted back and then crouched down to spot for another break in the stone volley. Malik edged next to Ory and pointed. “When Ahmadi says go, run for that corner and turn left. Don’t stop until you get there.” Ory felt him rap on the shell of his helmet. “Head down. Got it?”
“Got it,” Ory said. He almost saluted also, but caught himself in time.
“Go!” Ahmadi cried.
Malik bolted forward like a cannon. They ran straight for the safety of the turn onto Tenth Street as fast as they could. Every rock that cracked against the makeshift blockade caused Ory to jerk his hands to his helmet. “Make sure they can see your shadow when we walk up!” Malik shouted as they ran. Ory risked a glance behind just as they rounded the corner, to see if he could catch sight of whoever Malik and Ahmadi were fighting. It was a blur at such speed, and the details were lost. All he could make out before they were down Tenth Street and gone was a giant, hulking concrete building in the drizzle—completely painted crimson.
THE WAR. THE RED KING. THE GENERAL. ORY TRIED TO MAKE sense of any of those three names as he crept through the icy streets after Malik, but none of them sounded like things that had come from the old world at all.
Was it excitement he felt at finding shadowed humans again, or fear of them? Which was better—Arlington, with nothing left but ghosts, or Washington, D.C., with plenty of survivors, all of whom wanted to kill one another? Ghosts never wanted enough, and people always wanted too much.
But here he was, among people again, and memories and wants. These people of the Iowa wanted something. He wanted something, too. Maybe the General would agree to some kind of deal.
“So this war,” Ory started, but Malik hissed.
“No talking,” he ordered at a whisper. They kept moving. “Need to hear. Reds sometimes try to sneak up on you.”
“Sorry,” Ory whispered back. He watched each side street as they passed as well. Sometimes a dim shape would dart away, vague in the cold fog, but they looked no different than the shadowless he’d seen in Arlington that hid from every sound.
“Don’t worry,” Malik replied softly. “We’re close now. The General will explain everything.” He glanced at Ory one more time. “Do you have a different-colored shirt with you?”
THE IOWA LOOKED MORE LIKE A DERELICT FORTRESS THAN luxury condominiums now.
Ory followed Malik as he was ushere
d through the front doors past a skeleton guard crew. “Wait here,” Malik had said, and left him just inside the entrance, under the watchful eye of two other soldiers who were mending a torn coat.
Ory glanced at the iron bars across every window, crudely welded, but solid. He couldn’t have gone anywhere unless they’d wanted him to anyway. He nodded meekly at his guards as he waited, and they nodded back. One smiled. Should I show them Max’s photo? he wondered. But then he thought it was probably best to wait for this General. If things went well, they would all see the photo then, all forty of his survivors. Forty. Forty shadows, Ory tried to imagine.
The heavy wooden doors that led deeper into the Iowa swept back open then. “Attention!” another guard cried, and Ory looked up to see Malik marching beside him. And farther behind, partially obscured by the tightness of their formation, was a third man. “All rise for the General!”
Ory snapped upright, careful to keep his hands in full view, even though the two soldiers had inspected him for weapons before he was admitted inside.
“Li,” Malik said when he reached him. “I’m pleased to present you to the General of the Iowa, leader of all shadowed survivors in D.C., and commander of the war.” And with that, he stepped aside to reveal a man in a patchwork robe, flanked by guards.
There was just a moment when Ory could not place him.
“Impossible!” he gasped suddenly.
“Ory,” the General replied, equally stunned.
It was Imanuel.
“WE WERE GOING TO GO BACK FOR YOU” WAS THE FIRST THING Imanuel said after they’d finished crying.
“You don’t have to explain,” Ory replied.
“No,” Imanuel said. His expression was fierce. “I do. You have to know that we tried. We tried. The bridge was deserted when we first came across, but after we gave up trying to reach my family in Philly and went back for you, the shadowless had swarmed the area, and it was too dangerous to swim. We searched for another way for months. By that point, we didn’t think you and Max would still be there. We just didn’t think you’d have your shadows anymore. But you have to know that we tried. Paul would never forgive me if I didn’t tell you that we tried.”
“What happened to . . . what happened?” There was no need to say more.
“He . . .” Imanuel’s eyes welled up, and he shook his head. “You know how it goes. He forgot. Then he was gone.”
Ory had already known the answer, since the moment he’d realized the General was Imanuel. If Paul had still been alive, still owned his shadow, he would’ve been sitting with them now. His chest tightened anyway as he looked away, and they both stared at the ceiling for a long time.
After that, they didn’t talk about Paul anymore. Imanuel asked about Max instead. When Ory told him about her shadow, and Broad Street, and their empty, destroyed D.C. apartment, he could tell that Imanuel knew he still believed Max was here somewhere and that he could find her. He also could tell Imanuel didn’t believe it—but he didn’t say anything. Ory thought it was the kindest thing anyone had done for him since the day Hemu Joshi lost his shadow.
“Also, I apologize for the fanfare,” Imanuel finally said. “The entry presentation and all. I’d just walk in myself, but Malik makes the troops do it. He says ritual is good for morale.”
“It is good for morale,” Malik said.
The rain had started again. On the far side of the room, a corner of the wall had begun to shimmer lightly, as if weeping.
“Cozy,” Ory said.
“It’s the best option in the entire downtown. Even tops the White House,” Imanuel replied.
“There’s still someone in the White House?” he asked.
“No one important,” Imanuel said. Thunder droned, growing more distant. “It’s not really the White House anymore. They don’t want to be the president.”
Over the rest of the evening, Ory learned more. When Imanuel and Paul had stopped in D.C. after leaving Elk Cliffs, they’d managed to rally the remaining tenants in the Iowa to fortify the building. The top four floors were permanently closed now, all the doors and stairs sealed with concrete, and Imanuel and his soldiers existed on the first three floors—the lobby, the quarters, and the vault, where they kept valuables. The Red King’s stronghold, the building Ory glimpsed as he and Malik ran that was now covered in red, was the old Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library.
The door opened, and Ahmadi came in with several sheets of handwritten paper. Ory noticed that she held the stack the same way Max did, each leaf fanned between the fingers for quick perusal. “Day’s report,” she said as she handed them to Imanuel.
“Thank you,” Imanuel said. She saluted him as she left. “There are forty of us—forty-one including you,” Imanuel continued. “We used to be even bigger. When we started, there were seventy of us. Including Paul.” He sighed, but it turned into a hopeless laugh.
“Forty-one is still a lot,” Ory said. It was. He could hardly imagine it. “D.C. might be the biggest city left in the world.”
“Let’s hope not.” Imanuel looked at Ory. “Let’s hope there’s something else left, too.”
I heard a rumor once, about New Orleans, Ory almost said, but then the door opened a second time, and Ahmadi brought one more paper, some kind of updated report, and disappeared again.
Imanuel started to skim Ahmadi’s report, but then handed it to Malik. “If it’s bad news, I don’t want to know. There’s just been too much lately.”
“I’m sorry I lied about my name,” Ory said to him.
“If I’d walked here from Virginia, I’d be wary, too,” Malik replied, and began to read. His brow furrowed before he masked it with his usual stern expression, but Imanuel saw it before it was gone.
“The Red King is becoming more uncooperative,” Imanuel said to Ory. “The bartering system was workable at first. But more and more, he just wants to use force. Why trade when you can just take?”
Malik set the papers down and shook his head.
“Vey is mir,” Imanuel muttered, pressing on his eyeballs with his fingers. “Sorry. That was rude.” He stood up. “Ory, it’s about time I show you what we’re fighting for.”
“WATCH YOUR STEP,” IMANUEL SAID AS THEY CLEARED THE landing of the third floor, where the vault was located. Ahead of them, Malik was already opening the door at the end of the corridor. Weak torch light streamed into the hall.
Ory followed, unsure of what to expect. Opulence? A dungeon? Something inexplicable that had been created in the Forgetting? The first two levels of the Iowa had been fairly similar. Charred, boarded up, iron-reinforced. The third floor looked as it must have the day before Boston, except that every piece of furniture was gone.
“Good God,” Ory gasped when he reached the door.
From floor to ceiling were stacks and stacks of books.
“Our war chest,” Imanuel said.
“Good God,” Ory heard himself stammer again.
“It was Paul’s idea.” He smiled. “I keep doing it for him.”
Ory put a hand on Imanuel’s shoulder, letting it sink in. Paul was no longer alive, but he wasn’t completely gone either. As long as Imanuel was fighting to collect more books, some part of him was remembered. Some part of him remained. The same way that some part of Max remained as well. But the part of her left was not a book—because she was still alive, and lost. He was here because he was trying to find her. He had to get back to searching.
Ory turned to his friend, but at the same moment, Imanuel pointed inside. “Go on in. There are paths through, once you get started.”
Ory stepped hesitantly between the towering stacks. It was like a geometric forest. A soldier on inventory duty briefly looked up from where she stood. “How many books do you have here?” Ory asked as he picked up a lightly weathered paperback.
“About three thousand,” Imanuel said, with a touch of pride.
How many were once there? Ory wondered. A hundred thousand? A million? Three thousand books woul
d have been perhaps a section of one genre, or maybe twenty shelves. Something a person could pass by on their way from the entrance to the elevators. But here, now, in this new D.C.—it was an entire room full of books. It was probably the only room left like it in the world. Wherever he looked, it seemed like there were endless numbers of them. “How many more do you hope to get?” he finally asked.
“Nothing short of all of them would ever feel like enough,” Imanuel said. “But really, just one in particular.”
Ory looked down. For a moment, it felt like they were standing on a mountainside again, surrounded by tables topped with fluttering white tablecloths. Ory had owned a copy, in the D.C. apartment that had crumbled to ash. And there had been another at the wedding—Paul had read his vows from it. Where had that one gone? In all the months after everyone disappeared, Ory had never seen it lying about on one of the deserted floors, gathering dust. “That’s a good book,” he finally said.
Imanuel smiled sadly. “It is.”
“I’m glad you’re doing this,” Ory added.
“After Paul—I didn’t know if I could keep going,” Imanuel continued. “But then I remembered there was a copy of his poetry in most libraries. If there was one in this library as well, if it hadn’t been burned yet or disappeared—that makes me keep getting up in the mornings.”
Paul had signed Ory’s copy when he bought it. Ory tried to remember exactly what Paul’s note on the inside cover had said. Something about constellations—Paul’s poetry was about the sun and the sky, and night. Ory should have paid more attention. He hadn’t known he would need such a strong memory of it. That he wouldn’t be able to just go to the shelf and take it down whenever he wanted.
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