SIX
Marcus Van Zandt stood by the window and took a sip of his instant coffee. It tasted bitter, although he had dropped two spoonfuls of sugar in his cup and some of that powdered milk they still had in his well-stocked kitchen pantry. He knew the bitterness came from the water. No matter how they treated and filtered it, the Archipelago’s drinking water still had traces of salt. Van Zandt had, of course, enough supplies of bottled water, but he thought it was a waste to use it for his morning coffee… He tried to recall the taste of real coffee and real milk then brushed that memory away quickly. Let bygones be bygones... These things from the past would never make it back into his life. Real or not, he was holding a mug of steaming coffee in his hand! Who else in this city, all things considered, had such a privilege these days? No one, except him and a handful of his most trusted men. That fact always gave him great pleasure. His thin lips stretched into a smile. It was the smile of a survivor… a truly victorious survivor.
Van Zandt leaned on the window and gently drummed his fingers on the glass. Yes, he had real glass on his windows, not those nasty nylon sheets that the Lower Siders used. A few scattered bullet holes dotted the glass, but Van Zandt never bothered having them covered up, or the glass replaced. They were a reminder of the battle that had raged in his building many years ago… The battle that his father had fought and won! It had become his ritual to start the day here at the observation deck, on what used to be the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building. Of course, it was no longer called that… Now it was known as the Van Zandt Building and from its penthouse windows, he had a 360 degree view of the sprawling Archipelago. His Archipelago!
He was looking north at an area once called Central Park, and which now lay buried under millions of gallons of ocean water. It was home to his Floating Desalination Plant, part of the Van Zandt Water Solutions Company… The company that gave him the power to hold the Archipelago and its people in his iron grip… The only source of fresh water that sustained life in this God-forsaken place, he thought happily.
Marcus wasn’t even born, when his father had established Van Zandt Water Solutions. Shortly after the Flood and the initial chaos, a group of wealthy survivors had realized two things. First, that the rooftop water-tank supplies won't last for very long and that collecting rain water was a futile mission. Second, they had to find a long-term solution if they were to survive. By sheer good luck, Van Zandt Senior had the answer to everyone’s problem … He had found himself stranded in the same building with a marine scientist and a brilliant desalination expert named Nakamura. Van Zandt, who had already formed a powerful militia to guard his neighborhood’s water tanks, had quickly seen an opportunity… he had taken Nakamura under his wing and Van Zandt Water Solutions had been born. After his father's death, Marcus had stepped in his shoes and solidified the Van Zandt rule of law over the Archipelago. He was pushing sixty now, but appeared at least ten years younger. With his ash-blond hair combed back, tall and slim, he knew he looked good. No one had patent shark-skin shoes and leather jackets like he did!
Marcus Van Zandt took another sip from the steaming cup and his eyes fell on the lone spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral, sticking out of the water and now used as a mooring dock for rafts and various seafaring vessels… Those spires were sad relics of the past, no longer having any meaning, half buried under water and long forgotten. There was no place for religion on the Archipelago… Van Zandt was the one calling all the shots. He was the people’s savior, and the Greater Good Doctrine was their new religion! If people prayed, they did that behind closed doors and kept it quiet.
Van Zandt glanced at his watch, drained his cup and left it on the windowsill for the maid to pick up. He went down the spiral staircase of his penthouse, nodded to his butler standing at the door and took the pair of gloves the man was holding on a silver tray. Van Zandt loved these gloves and never went anywhere without them. Now, flanked by a couple of his guards, he was ready to start the day by taking the elevator down two floors to his boardroom.
“For the Greater Good, gentlemen!” Marcus Van Zandt greeted his Council members, who were already gathered around the long, polished oak table. He waved his hand when they rose from their seats to salute him. "Please, sit down," he said. Van Zandt eased into the big chair at the head of the table and studied the men’s faces for any signs of discomfort… and possible betrayal… There they were, all his cohorts and partners in crime, waiting for him to speak… First, there was Vince Jordan, his Chief of Security, a large black man in his fifties. He had the habit of constantly playing with the buckle of the pistol holster hanging on his belt. Clasping and unclasping, always ready, even during their board meetings. “Can't take your hands off your gun, can you Vincent?” Van Zandt said, jokingly. “No one's threatening us in here!”
Jordan snapped to attention and quickly placed his massive hands on the table in front of him. His expression was that of a scolded child. Jordan was the spitting image of his father. The Old Jordan had been a high ranking police officer at the time of the Flood, stuck by chance in the same building with Van Zandt’s father. It hadn’t taken him long to assess the new situation and team up with Van Zandt. Surrounded with a solid group of armed officers, they had fiercely guarded the water stored in the rooftop tanks and everything else that was of value. There were fights, blood was spilled in the turf war that followed… many died in the struggle for survival…Later, when things began to settle down, Old Jordan had managed to gather all the remaining police officers, firefighters, security personnel, and virtually anyone who was carrying a badge or a weapon, and he had created the Archipelago’s New Security Force. All firearms were confiscated and gathered in one place, away from the hands of the population. Anything salvaged underwater had to be surrendered to the Security Force. Those caught with an illegal weapon were killed on the spot! With all the firepower on their side, Old Jordan and Van Zandt had established and enforced the new laws of the land. Those who rebelled against the Van Zandt Government were severely punished and paid with their lives. When Old Jordan passed the torch to his son, Vince Jordan had quickly become Marcus Van Zand's second most trusted man.
Van Zandt's eyes shifted quickly over to Ted Junior. He was Nakamura’s son and had taken the seat next to Jordan. He had also followed in his father's steps and was overseeing the desalination and water distribution process between the Upper and the Lower Side. Van Zandt considered him the weakest link in his chain of command. Son of a scientist, the man was too soft and unfit to deal with the brutal realities of life on the Archipelago. His ideas of freeing up the water distribution, and increasing the daily rations were driving Van Zandt crazy. Of course, he would have gotten rid of Ted Nakamura a long time ago, but his hands were tied. Nakamura was the only one who knew the desalination formula, and he was the only one capable of making it work properly.
And then there was Duncan Roth, the Rottweiler. Marcus looked at the man and gave him a slight nod of appreciation. Duncan was something else! He was in charge of the Free Scavengers, of every scavenging operation and the distribution of all precious salvaged goods from the waters of the Archipelago. But Duncan was also an engineer and often supervised construction sites, making sure that none of the salvaged materials were being wasted. He was the only one on the board who held two positions… And the man performed both jobs with unmatched ruthlessness and superb attention to detail. Everybody feared the Rottweiler! And precisely because of this, Van Zandt trusted him even more. He was his best and most trusted ally.
Marcus greeted the rest of the Council members with a cold stare and waited for them to take out their handheld computer devices. Silently, he blessed his father for having the foresight to order the Security Force confiscate as many of them as it could. Before the Flood, most of these devices used to be phones, but they no longer worked as such. No one could place a call on them even if they tried… All lines of communication had gone silent decades ago... But as long as their batteries lasted, they could s
till perform other valuable functions. They were now used for organizing, record keeping, event planning, adding and subtracting, and the making of lists. Only Government officials of the highest rank were issued with such hardware, and Van Zandt had instructed everybody to guard them with their lives.
“Well, who wants to start?” Van Zandt eyed the group.
“I'll start,” said a short, chubby man, clearing his throat. Doctor Oscar Zamora, the person responsible for assessing the overall health of the citizens, now pressed the screen on his handheld pad. “I’m pleased to announce that we’ve finalized the Departure List! This year we have a few kids among the group… According to our medical opinion, all of them are cases which are beyond any hope of healing."
“Speak plainly, Oscar!” Van Zandt sounded annoyed. “You mean the kids are useless to us because they’re dying, right?”
“Correct, sir,” Dr. Zamora nodded.
“Well, if it's for the greater good of all concerned, I won’t object,” said Van Zandt, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “Losing young blood is always regrettable, but we need our Lower Side population to be strong and productive,” he addressed the table.
“Perhaps, sir, we should look into holding our annual Day of Pairing … Have it shortly after the Departure… This way, we’ll be encouraging the start of a new generation,” Dr. Zamora suggested.
“Excellent idea!” Van Zandt seemed suddenly very animated. “Find out who’s come of age. Help those boys and girls pair up... The sooner they start making babies the better. We’ll replenish our livestock on the Lower Side in no time.” Van Zandt laughed, feeling very pleased with himself. “Now, read that Departure List to me.”
“We have fifty-three people altogether. Forty-eight adults and five kids. I’ll start in alphabetical order: Greg Andrews, Sandy Chia…”
Suddenly, Dr. Zamora was interrupted by rapid tapping sounds coming from outside one of the boardroom’s big windows.
“Hold on Oscar,” Van Zandt said, getting out of his chair. “Looks like we’ve got some urgent mail…” He walked briskly over to the window where a steel-grey pigeon was waiting. It had landed on a small perch attached to the window’s sill. The bird tapped its beak on the glass again. Van Zandt opened the window, scooped the bird in his hand, and then carefully retrieved a folded scrap of paper out of the pouch round the bird’s neck. All eyes were on him as he opened the note and silently read it. “It’s from Jenkins,” he said, frowning. “Another tower’s partially collapsed on the Lower Side! It’s taken down two bridges… Quite a lot of casualties!”
“I’m on my way!” Duncan Roth stood up immediately and was already half way out of the room.
“Me too!” Jordan said and followed the Rottweiler.
“Go to work, gentlemen!” Van Zandt peered out of the window in the direction of the Lower Side. “The Departure List will have to wait.”
SEVEN
“Antonio's not feeling well today, Flynn!” Mrs. Romero shook her head, her eyes full of worry and pain.
Flynn was trying to peek inside Tony’s apartment, but his mother had now completely blocked the low doorway with her body. “Can I come in and see him? Just for a minute?”
“Better not…. I want him to rest… not get too excited.”
“But we’ve got to...” Flynn began to say something and stopped. “Never mind, I’ll go and get him some more medicine… That’ll fix him.”
“It won't help much, Flynn!”
“Then what will, Mrs. Romero?”
“Dr. Omar says Tony needs stronger food, mountain air ... whatever that is anyway… we don't have it,” said Mrs. Romero wringing her hands. “And he’s had to report Tony’s condition to the Government…. to Dr. Zamora’s people!” The poor woman choked up, her eyes filling with tears.
“Mom, who is it?” Tony's voice came from inside the apartment. It sounded weak.
“Nobody, son,” Mrs. Romero said over her shoulder, never taking her eyes away from Flynn. “I'll be right in.”
“Well, I'll drop by tomorrow, then,” Flynn said.
“Please, don't! He's not going out any time soon!” She hesitated then grabbed Flynn’s hand and leaned closer. “Tony doesn’t have a pair of lungs like you do ... made out of steel… he can barely breathe, Flynn!” she whispered, her voice full of bitterness. Mrs. Romero let go of Flynn, stepped back inside and closed the door flap.
Flynn felt terrible. He had truly believed the medicine would help Tony get better, keep him going…. It had been Tony's last hope after all those visits to Dr. Omar and the Lower Side Infirmary, the miserable little hospital ward on the corner of Bridge and Broad Street Canals. It occupied the lowest two floors of the building, so patients didn’t have to be carried up and down stairs and walkways. The Archipelago had a much better medical facility on the Upper Side, but it was off-limits for the Lower Siders. Dr. Omar did all he could for the sick and those wounded in accidents around town. He was another ancient, spared from the Departure List, like Mr. Kowalski. Over the years the man had performed miracles, considering the lack of medical supplies and the appalling conditions he was working under. He had even come up with a few break-through medical solutions…using algae and various types of jellyfish, he had successfully developed replacements for conventional and long lost medicines. And he had also done an amazing job with Flynn, stitching him up after the shark tooth incident… Flynn could easily have lost his arm if it weren’t for the good doctor… But there wasn't much the old man could do for Tony, apart from suggesting the boy continue with the nightly algae inhalations. Every time he examined the ailing boy, he would look at Mrs. Romero and shake his head in despair. Dr. Omar knew he was helpless and had pretty much given up on Tony.
Flynn stood in front of the Romero's door, scratching his head… Now what? Mountain air? Where the hell was he going to get that from? Mountains didn't exist, he knew that. Only in pictures and in tales of what the world was like before the Flood… Flynn remembered staring for hours at the faded photographs of snow-capped mountain peaks, green valleys and fields covered with flowers…of dark blue lakes and lush forests…They were all in the old magazines and books his father kept hidden away in their apartment. Allan Perry had used them for teaching Flynn to read and write. There were no schools anymore... Parents on the Lower Side were left to their own devices when it came to educating their children. Most didn't bother at all. Those who did would stick mainly to the basics – reading and writing. No one cared about teaching Geography and History. Who needed to know about things of the past, buried under tons of water and never coming back!
Yes, Flynn had seen the pictures of what used to be out there, but they were just that ... pictures. You couldn’t breathe fresh mountain air from a picture, could you! Last night, he had eavesdropped on the conversation between his father and Mr. Kowalski… heard all that nonsense about some magical healthy Dry Land far in the West… Mr. Kowalski was getting old and losing his mind, Flynn thought. There was nothing out there! Nothing, but ocean and tiny outposts with contaminated waste.
He glanced once more at Tony's door, turned away and slowly started to climb up the filthy steps of the Romero's apartment building. He had to stop fooling himself. Tony wasn't going to be fit to partner him in the Trials. But who else was there? All the boys his age had teamed up already. Except ... Flynn stopped suddenly, sucking in his breath… This wasn't going to work, but what the heck ... It was worth a try, he thought as he rushed up to the roof of the building.
He had not come with his raft to check on Tony, since the boy lived only a block away from him. Flynn had walked the distance. He had used the big bridge over Greenway Canal and then a couple of suspended walkways between buildings to get to Tony's…Now, he had to cross all the way to the east corner of the Lower Side… and walking was out of the question. Flynn knew that he had no other choice, but to get on one of the cable cars.
The Baldwin Cable Car system was the brainchild of Dan
Baldwin, a member of the First Government and a close associate of Van Zandt Senior. The man was long dead, but his cable-car system lived on. It was regarded by the Government as the work of a genius, a great achievement in providing public transportation and helping to ease the traffic on the waterways. They were especially proud of the cables connecting the Upper and Lower Side. Those ran the length of the submerged Midtown section, on both sides of the Van Zandt’s Pipeline, with cable cars crawling up and down above Midtown Bay.
Well, Flynn hated the cable car service. It was slow, unreliable and often dangerous, he thought as he climbed onto the shaky station platform. The platform jutted out from the roof of the building and its corrugated sheets of metal wobbled under Flynn’s feet. Stepping cautiously toward the edge, he grabbed the side railings to steady himself. He took a look around and felt dwarfed by the wind turbines, towering above him from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Half a dozen huge fans, covered in grime and bird droppings, rotated slowly, the shadows of their blades dancing all around Flynn. Coils of power cables hung from the turbines’ motors and stretched down to the Lower Side Generator building. Relics from the past, some of the generators still worked, providing energy alongside the clusters of solar panels. But, one by one, these machines were failing, due to the diminishing number of spare parts needed to keep them up and running. As hard as they tried, the Free Scavenger crews weren’t bringing up anything that could help Mr. Kowalski and his team help fix the problem.
A new sound made Flynn shift his gaze. The thick suspension cable above his head was now vibrating madly with a low hum. He was in luck today. A cable car was coming right on schedule. Flynn glanced to his left, and there it was, swaying in the air and slowly making its way toward him. The car’s cabin was a rusting shell of a bus, salvaged from the depths of the Archipelago’s waters. It had been stripped clean of its wheels, gears and engine, leaving only its tattered seats inside. An effort had been made to scrub away the thick crust of barnacles which clung to the bus’ sides, but a row of them still remained along its undercarriage.
Archipelago N.Y.: Flynn Page 6