Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  But I’m naive if I don’t admit that I’ve put myself at great risk. By pretending to be Juda’s wife, I’ve given him total power over me. As long as we’re around strangers, I must do whatever he commands. When we were in the bunker, discussing the marriage charade, the whole scheme felt like a game, but now that we’re in the street, surrounded by other men, the decision seems reckless.

  I remind myself of everything Juda and I have already been through, that I trust him and have no reason to believe he would take advantage. I glance at him. His searching eyes and tight jaw tell me this is not a man who is pondering his new position of power. I stop worrying about him so I can focus on where we’re going.

  To reach Macy’s on 35th Street, we decide to walk down Broadway, instead of 6th. Juda thinks there will be fewer Twitchers in the Theater District, a neighborhood I’ve never seen. Nana once warned me away, saying, “It’s where women end up when they have nothing left.”

  The buildings start changing as soon as we pass 44th. Windows disappear from the storefronts, blacked over or replaced by signs that say WARM GREETINGS FROM 7:00 UNTIL MIDNIGHT and EXOTIC FLOWERS: 24 HOURS.

  Why don’t the signs advertise the truth? WOMEN FOR SALE. Do men really feel better if the signs say WARM GREETINGS?

  Hulking doormen hover in doorways, and every so often a man dashes out of a building, head down. With a sinking feeling, I realize I’m the only woman in sight. We were supposed to blend in, and instead I feel like a pear in a crate of bananas.

  A man grimaces at me, spitting on the ground as we walk by.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?” I ask, noticing other men glaring at me.

  “Yes,” Juda says, putting a protective hand on my arm. “You’re just a reminder of the wives waiting for them at home. Don’t worry.”

  Hearing yelling, I turn my head to see a man being shoved out a door into an alley. The man—a Convene, judging from his accent—is angry that the woman in the doorway doesn’t want his business. The woman, who wears a minuscule pink nightgown that perfectly matches her huge magenta lips, tells him to go to Hell. Wild brown hair tumbling down her back, she glares at him, her eyes surrounded by thick black eyelashes that look like two spiders resting on a doll’s face.

  Juda gapes at the woman. He sees me watching him and looks away, ashamed.

  We pass a few more theaters.

  “Do you like makeup?” I ask.

  “I don’t know—”

  “What about forbidden underwear?”

  He’s silent.

  “You must. All men must. Why else are they paying for it?”

  “Mina, I don’t—”

  “Please explain it to me. I want to understand.”

  My mind is spinning now. Men will stone a woman for wearing makeup one day and pay a woman to wear it the next. I have to be a virgin to be a bride, but Damon can visit the Theater District every day and be a groom. Men don’t allow their wives to be educated, but then they complain that their women are dull and use it as an excuse to come here and have a “warm greeting.” I want to scream.

  “PLEASE. Explain it,” I repeat, more loudly this time.

  Juda looks around uncomfortably. “This may not be the best time to talk about it.”

  I see that several men walking nearby are listening to our conversation. The doorman from the nearest business takes a step forward, blocking our way. He puffs up his chest to emphasize the fact that he’s built like a bus.

  They’ve all heard me raising my voice at my “husband.” They eagerly await Juda’s response.

  Under my breath, I whisper to Juda, “Berate me.”

  Through gritted teeth, he says, “No.”

  “Do it,” I murmur, “or they’ll beat me instead.” I have the Taser in my pocket, and Juda has his pistol, but if we use either, Twitchers will come running.

  The doorman takes another step toward us, and I tell Juda, with as much urgency as I can manage without raising my voice, “Now.”

  Juda looks down and sighs, and then, before I know what’s happening, he’s an inch away from my face, yelling, “DON’T SPEAK TO ME THAT WAY OR I’LL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE AND FEED IT TO THE WHINY SAITCH YOU CALL A MOTHER, UNDERSTAND?”

  I’m so shocked to hear him use such foul language, and by the crazy look in his eyes, that I can’t respond. He grabs my arm and shakes me. “Do you HEAR ME?!”

  The men surrounding us begin to laugh; one says, “The women for six blocks heard you.” They break apart, moving on down the sidewalk. The lumbering doorman goes back to his doorway.

  Keeping his hand on my arm, Juda pulls me down Broadway.

  For several blocks, neither of us says a word.

  When we reach 37th Street, he drops my arm, saying, “I wish you hadn’t made me do that.”

  “Well, I wish,” I say, snapping back, “you hadn’t been so good at it.” I know I’m admonishing him for something I told him to do, but I can’t stop myself.

  He’s taken aback. “You thought that was me?” He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half cough. “That was Damon. I’ve been watching and listening to him every day for nearly ten years.”

  I smile, relieved. Of course it was Damon. Juda even imitated the nasally, stuck-up voice. “Do some more.”

  He turns down his mouth and juts out his bottom lip. “But I don’t want the silk pajamas. I want the silk robe. And if you can’t tell the difference, then you aren’t worth the manure you were raised in.”

  I stop smiling. “How did you live with those awful people for so long?”

  He cringes. “I pretended it didn’t matter, that it was just a job and that I didn’t care about the people they affected.” He pauses. “That changed with you.”

  “Have I said thank you enough times?”

  “Please stop. I wasn’t a nice person. As long as I ignored the things Damon did, it was the same as if I was doing them myself. So I actually owe you. You set me free from the Ashers for good.”

  Nyek. If Juda learns the truth of his birth, his blood will bind him to Mr. Asher forever. He can never have the freedom he deserves.

  I wish I could talk to his mother about it, ask her why she lied to him in the first place. She seems like such a smart, strong woman. How could she have fallen for a man like Mr. Asher? How did they even meet? He’s not hanging out in the Fields, that’s for sure. He found his wife when she was just a child, roaming the streets with her sister. Maybe Rose was young, too, easily impressed by his money and power. Although, when the time came, she turned down the offer of his name and fortune. And the letter I read seemed genuine, tender.

  The idea of being close to Mr. Asher in any way makes me shudder. And then to decide to send Juda into his house, forcing him to be close to Mr. Asher and his mean wife and bratty son? I don’t understand it.

  I’m worried that the longer I wait to tell Juda the truth, the madder he’s going to be. Every minute we spend together counts as time that I’m lying to him. What if I tell him and he decides he doesn’t like me anymore? The thought is agony.

  Interrupting my train of thought, Juda says, “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He points across the street. My mouth goes dry.

  We’ve reached 35th Street, and there’s a huge building, a whole block wide, that must’ve once been the Macy’s from the Primer. But, as Juda warned me, it’s completely bombed out. The top has been blown off, and the remaining floors have collapsed in on themselves. No one could possibly be inside. “I should have listened to you,” I say. “I’m sorry I made you come all the way down here.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied until you saw it for yourself.” His voice is kind.

  I nod, trying not to be too disappointed. What did I really expect? A big party going on, with everyone waving green leaves in the air?

  Walking alongside the wreckage, we see more exploded windows and debris. “What happened?”

  “Apostates did it, probably when the T
eachers were taking over the city.”

  I wonder what it must have looked like in Time Zero. Surely I’ve passed this block of ruins before. I just never paid attention to it, since I didn’t need anything from it.

  “Mina,” Juda says, urgency in his voice.

  A Twitcher is headed our way. We keep walking as if everything is normal. As he passes, I know I should look down at the sidewalk in deference, like a good woman, but I’m frozen, staring right at him. Is his little red light moving up and down, scanning us, telling him we’re “wanted”?

  The red light doesn’t move, so my breath returns to normal. Juda takes my hand to rush us away, but I turn around, wanting to get another look at the Twitcher.

  But he’s disappeared.

  “Juda,” I say, “look.”

  Reluctant, ready to flee, he stares at the empty sidewalk while I inspect everywhere around me, afraid the Twitcher is camouflaged and ready to pounce, like a praying mantis.

  “Something’s wrong,” I say.

  “Exactly. Let’s go.” He tugs on my hand. “We have to get out of here.”

  I let him pull me along 35th Street. We make a left onto Sixth Avenue, and I realize with relief that Juda doesn’t intend to take me through the Theater District a second time. It wasn’t an experience either of us wants to repeat.

  Crossing 36th Street, I’m still puzzling over the Twitcher. Besides his disappearing act, there was something else strange about him, but I can’t put my finger on what it was.

  I picture him marching past us. I think of his helmet, his uniform, his gloves . . .

  I stop walking. “He was carrying a bag,” I say. Juda looks at me, confused. “Think about it. In all your years, have you ever seen a Twitcher carrying a bag?”

  Juda squints, concentrating. “Maybe he was on his way home? Or . . . maybe it was a toothbrush, so he could stay over with another Twitcher?”

  I don’t smile. Before I saw Captain Memon’s face under his helmet, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Twitchers were human. I turn to walk back toward 35th Street.

  Groaning, Juda catches up. “You want to search for a Twitcher?”

  “I don’t think it was a Twitcher. Not a real one.”

  “And you’re willing to risk your life on a bag?”

  Not answering, I keep walking until we’ve arrived back at the remains of Macy’s. I find the approximate spot where the Twitcher disappeared. Pointing toward the massive pile of debris, I say, “That’s the only place he could’ve gone.”

  “We can’t just start poking around in there. It could collapse on us.”

  “Fine.” I start walking toward the rubble alone.

  “Wait,” he says, sighing. “At least let’s find a safe way inside.”

  I nod, happy he’s come around, even though, to be honest, I’m not entirely convinced myself about this plan. An armed Twitcher could be waiting for us inside the demolished building—but something in my gut tells me otherwise.

  All we see is smashed concrete and deformed steel bars, not even one foot of surviving floor. Juda stares at the rubble for a long time.

  “Look at the junk in this pile,” he says. “It’s stone, concrete, metal beams, and wood.”

  “So?”

  “The fire from the bombs should’ve burned up any wood.”

  Without warning, he approaches the debris and starts to climb, finding several wood beams sticking out that make a nice series of steps. “Someone has done a great job creating stairs while keeping the look of wreckage.” He finds three more wood steps and is quickly at the top of the rubble. He then ducks under a beam and disappears.

  I wait a few seconds, surprised when he doesn’t return right away. “Juda?”

  I hear only the sound of scraping metal, then banging.

  My breath catches. “Juda?” I say, releasing a little squeak at the end of his name.

  “I’m here,” he says, his voice muffled. More time passes, I hear more scraping, and then finally he says, “I think you should join me.”

  Checking down the street to make sure no one is coming, I lift my cloak slightly and start to clamber up after him. Juda made it look easy, but the cloak means I can’t see my feet. I use my hands to grab at the wood beams above me, but then fabric starts to get caught around my legs. I make clumsy progress up the pile.

  Juda pops his head out from under the beam. “Give me your hand,” he says.

  Annoyed that he has to help me, I offer him my hand, and he helps me balance while my other hand holds up my cloak. This way, I’m able to climb at a decent speed. “Watch your head,” he warns as I reach the top. He pulls me under the beam, and now I find I’m in a cave. Sunlight shines through several beams crisscrossing above us. A floor has been created with sheets of rusted metal.

  “Someone built this,” Juda says.

  Yes. The beams above us are a very deliberate ceiling. “But it doesn’t explain where the Twitcher went,” I say. “There’s no way out.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He lifts a large sheet of corroded metal. I approach slowly, not sure what his odd expression could mean. But when I get next to him and look down, I understand.

  He’s found a stairway that leads underneath the demolished building. And on the underside of the piece of metal that he’s holding, someone has painted a green leaf.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I START DOWN THE DARK STAIRWAY, BUT JUDA grabs my shoulder, saying, “I’ll go first. There’s probably a Twitcher down there.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t a Twitcher. If I’m wrong, then I should accept the consequences.”

  “We can argue about it all night, but there’s no way I’m letting you go unarmed into a dark pit in front of me.”

  I don’t want to waste any more time. I just want to get down those stairs and find out what Nana wanted me to see. So, instead of fighting him, I say, “Fine.”

  “What happened to your fear of being underground?”

  He’s right. As soon as I saw that leaf, I was ready to dive into this hole. “Nana matters more,” I say with a shrug.

  We walk down a few more steps; then Juda changes his mind and climbs back up to replace the metal cover. “Wait,” I say. “We won’t be able to see anything.”

  “This is the way we found it. We shouldn’t leave their entrance exposed.”

  Panic sets in. If he slides the metal sheet over our heads, this will be a hundred times worse than walking down into the bunker. There, we had the lantern and Juda knew exactly what we were walking into.

  I rack my brain for an argument that might leave us even a sliver of sunlight, but I know that Juda is right—we have to cover our tracks.

  The horrible scraping of metal on metal echoes the screeching protest in my head as the world slowly goes dark. My eyes search for something, anything, to focus on, but there’s nothing. A black cloak seems to cover my eyes.

  “Stay still.” Juda places his hands on my back, then slides them down to my waist, giving me the chills. Slowly, he circles around me so he can position himself on the stair below, but he doesn’t let go of my waist, so I know he’s still facing me. I can hear his breath and feel its heat.

  I want to reach up and touch his arms again, like in the bunker, when I could feel the muscles moving underneath his skin. His big hands make me feel small and delicate, something I never felt before he started touching me. This complete darkness is like playing under the blankets when I was little, like nothing that happens in here could ever be real—Juda and I could touch on these stairs all day, and no one would ever know or care.

  I put my hands on top of his hands, ready to find his lips, when he says, “There’d better not be rats.”

  I cover my mouth with my hands so I won’t laugh. “You okay?” he asks. “Your breathing is weird.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, pulling myself together.

  He lets go of my waist, turning around. “Put your hand on my shoulder, and don’t move until I do.”

  I wish he h
adn’t mentioned rats. The darkness here is like staring into a hole, and I feel light-headed. Maybe the Apostate’s bomb created a crater and we’re about to fall into it.

  Shaking off the thought, I continue to descend, slowly letting each foot feel the stair so that I can anticipate the size and shape of the next one.

  We keep climbing down, the blind leading the blind, and I’m grateful for Juda’s sturdiness in front of me. At least I can’t go tumbling forward into the abyss. We continue down for a long time, descending much deeper into the earth than we needed to for the bunker. “Can you see anything yet?” I whisper.

  “Nothi—”

  Suddenly, a blinding light is thrown into our faces. Juda freezes, and I bump into his back. He throws up one arm to protect me while his right hand reaches for his pistol. Growling like a provoked animal, he speaks into the darkness, “Who are you?”

  Silence.

  “Answer me!” Juda says.

  I stick my head around him. “We’re here about the leaves!” Shielding my eyes with my hand, I try to see whom I’m speaking to. “We don’t mean any harm. We just . . . uh . . .” Then I remember exactly why we’re here. “Someone sent me.”

  After a moment, the harsh beam drops and a new light goes on; this one illuminates the entire space. We’re in a small room filled with boxes. And in the center of it, blocking the only door—a Twitcher.

  “Stand back, Mina!” Juda cries.

  “No,” I say. “It’s okay.” I look at the Twitcher, who holds the bag that I saw. “Isn’t it?”

  The Twitcher cocks his head so that his helmet turns sideways, studying me. Then he takes a gloved hand and un-clicks two latches at the base of the helmet. Air whooshes out.

  I’m in shock, Juda, too, for underneath the Twitcher helmet is not a man but an Asian girl with hard brown eyes; high, sculpted cheekbones; and short, spiky blue hair. She’s older than I am, maybe twenty or twenty-one, and while her hair might be playful, her expression most certainly is not. “Who sent you?”

  “My grandmother?” I say. I’m annoyed with myself that I make it sound more like a question than a statement.