City of Savages

by Lee Kelly

  7 PHEE

  I sit down on a rock in the shade of the trees that border the Great Lawn and massage my bruised ribs. For, like, the tenth time this hour. There’re hundreds of workers in the fields, collecting corn from the stalks and plucking apples from the trees. Rows of bent backs and beaded brows. I’m obviously the only one who’s taken a million breaks since dawn.

  But no one’s giving me any grief.

  Something’s changed since the street-fights last night. I’ve seen it in the looks of other fieldworkers. In the smug smiles of the whorelords during the feast last night, and at this morning’s rundown of duties. There are nods of respect, talks of my “resourcefulness,” whispers of my “potential.”

  Sarah, Rolladin has to have her eye on your youngest now, I’d heard Lauren say to Mom this morning.

  You’ll be wearing a warlord shawl by this time next year. Mark my words, Old Lady Warbler had cackled to me at the festival, as I’d moved past her crowded pit to our own penthouse of fires.

  Trevor even overheard Council member Lory talking with Cass last night after they were good and wasted, telling Cass she needed to lay off me from now on. That with how impressed Rolladin must be with my performance on 65th Street, someone will pledge me, and I’ll be one of them soon enough.

  One of them.

  I’ve been raised my whole life to hate the whorelords. And I do. At least I think I do. They’re technically prisoners of war along with the rest of us, stuck on this dead island just like we are. But they’re the “chosen” ones—when our city was surrendered to the Red Allies, the story goes, our numb-nuts captors put them in charge. Well, I guess they put Rolladin in charge, and she fleshed out her ranks with bruisers and eye candy. Bruisers that get to beat us up and boss us around in exchange for food and safety.

  A bit of a bullshit exchange, obviously.

  I start picking at my lip as I sit, and the scab that’s formed overnight breaks apart. I think more about the matches, about the way the crowd cheered for me, and the way people looked at me differently afterward, like I wasn’t someone to be messed with. And I wonder, would being a warlord really be the end of the world? Extra rations for my mom and Sky, rooms at Belvedere Castle. And I could pretty much guarantee that no one would ever hurt my family.

  I watch Mom and Sky in the fields, as they rip the light-green husks from the yellow cobs. I don’t know why I’m even entertaining this. Mom would kill me. It’s not just that the warlord gig is dangerous—combing the Upper East and West Sides for feeders and raiders, being on the front lines of Rolladin’s crazy moods and whims. It’d also be the biggest insult Mom could think of. She hates Rolladin so much, it’s like a drug, and sometimes I think she’s so hopped up on it, she can’t see straight. If I ever “worked” for Rolladin, Mom might very well disown me.

  I think of Mom’s beef with Rolladin. Then I think of Rolladin breaking up my match, of stopping Cass before she reached for that knife—even though Rolladin was the one who forced our family into the whole mess in the first place. Why? It doesn’t make any sense. It works me up sometimes when I realize how little we know about my mother, and this city, and why things are the way they are. But unlike Sky, I refuse to let it drive me crazy.

  So I take a breath. Then I glance at my mom and sister, at the way the light hits the grass so it looks like they’re working in a field full of silver. And I say thanks for what I do know: that I’m lucky.

  I eventually get up and work for a few more hours, before a couple of whorelords start shouting over the fields, “Break time!” We all drop our tools and converge on the ration lines like an army of ants. Today’s midday ration won’t be anything as glamorous as last night’s stew, but who cares? I’m starving. Mom takes a break to talk with Lauren near the farming edges, but I can’t wait. I push Sky towards the front.

  “Cornmeal or potato hash?” I quiz Sky as we take our place in line behind about thirty fieldworkers.

  “Hash, definitely,” she says as she bends backward to stretch.

  “No way,” Trevor says as he just magically appears on my other side. “I heard we just started pulling the potatoes. They can’t be ready to make a hash.”

  “Um, where’d you just come from?” I ask.

  “The zoo,” he says, missing my point. “I saw you near the front and didn’t want to miss my window.”

  Sky and I both wrinkle our noses as Trev’s stink settles around us. A few fieldworkers in front of us start murmuring in disgust. Then a couple of boys, maybe a little younger than Trev, start snickering behind us. Soon we’re bordered by two feet of empty grass in all directions.

  I take a closer look at Trevor. He has small pieces of carcass on his shirt, red stripes of dried blood across his arms. His smell is so intense it nearly gives me a headache.

  “What the hell were you doing this morning?” I say.

  “Trevor was on animal guts,” one of the boys behind us answers.

  I turn around to a pair of dirty faces, all ratty clothes and tweeny smirks. The boys are definitely younger than Trevor, maybe twelve or thirteen. Not that it matters. Trev doesn’t stand up for himself, no matter who’s pushing him down.

  The one talking gets all flustered, pink face and everything, now that he’s got my attention. But he recovers pretty quick. “Stupid Red bastard,” he nods at Trev. “Rolladin makes all the rejects do her dirty work.” Then he laughs and looks at me hungrily, like he’s waiting for props.

  But something has snapped inside me, and my heart starts clamoring into fight mode, almost like I’m right outside that 65th Street underpass again. Sure, most days I want to strangle Trevor. But that doesn’t mean I want anyone else messing with him.

  “That’s a bogus theory,” I tell the kid. “Else your whole family would be working the slaughterhouses all winter.”

  Sky shoots me a smile as the boy’s friend starts heckling him behind us: She got you. You should see your face!

  But Trev doesn’t say anything. He never does—in fact, these types of rumbles are the only times the kid’s quiet. He just keeps tailing me and Sky like some fidgety shadow as the line snakes us up to the front.

  We get our bowls of what turns out to be some kind of apple and wheat concoction in silence. Then we all settle on a small patch of grass bordering the fields. The midday break is for half an hour. It’s the first and only one before the end of the workday and our nighttime ration.

  “This actually isn’t too bad,” Sky says in between bites. Her hands are shaking a little bit, and I can tell she’s already exhausted. I’m exhausted too. We got about four hours of sleep last night, and most of it was just tossing and turning.

  “Agreed. The apples are just ripe enough,” Trev says with his mouth full.

  “I forgot you worked apples last season,” Sky says. “Hey, why’d they move you off tree picking this year, anyway? I thought you were the Park’s quickest picker.”

  She sneaks me a wink. Trev’s always telling us these tall tales that make him out to be Boy Wonder of the Park. My sister humors him more than I do.

  “I’m getting older.” He shrugs. “And they want the men and stronger women handling the meat.”

  “Men?” I snort. “Aren’t you being a little generous there?”

  Trevor blushes beet red, and for a minute I feel terrible. It was just such an easy shot.

  “We’re just surprised,” Sky says, covering for me. “You’re only thirteen, right?”

  “Fourteen! Almost fifteen. And if not me, who? It’s not like there’s a ton of . . . of guys to pick from. I stepped up to help and do my part.”

  Well, he’s right on that point. We’re four-to-one females to males on this island, based on Rolladin’s last census. Even less if you take out all the kids and “guys” like Trev. But now I’m wondering why I wasn’t sent to the zoo this morning along with the rest of the strongest
workers, instead of tilling the fields. Maybe it’s my bruised ribs. Or some weird reward for last night.

  As if reading my mind, Trev whispers to Sky, “So how long till you think someone officially pledges Phee?”

  Sky looks at him curiously, and I make eyes at Trev to shut it. I didn’t tell Sky any of the rumors I heard about me being plucked to be a warlord. I don’t know if they’re true, and besides, I know how she’ll feel about them.

  “What are you talking about? Phee, what’s he talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say loudly, at the same time Trevor blabs, “Pledge her to become a warlord.”

  Sky’s face freezes up.

  “Trev, you’re as bad as Old Lady Warbler with the gossip.” I look at my sister. “It’s dumb. Just some rumors, Sky. Rolladin’s not going to make me a whorelord ’cause of one measly fight.”

  “Duh, of course not. One of the lords would have to pledge you, but that’s easy.” Trev keeps making it worse. “And you’d probably still need to spar next year for your initiation and everything—”

  “Assuming all of that happens,” Sky talks over him, her voice all shaky, “Phee, would you really think about doing it?”

  I mash around my porridge, trying to find the easiest way to dig out of this. “Why bother with what-ifs? No one’s pledged me.”

  “Phee, come on. Answer me. If someone did—if Rolladin picked you herself—what would you say? You wouldn’t really think about it, would you?” Sky’s staring at me so hard it’s like she’s trying to see through me.

  “I’d say no, of course. No way.” I hate holding back from Sky; it makes my insides churn. But I tell her what I think she wants to hear. “Are you kidding me? Mom would kill me.”

  “So because of Mom, you wouldn’t.” Her eyes become a little watery as she looks at me. Sky rarely full-on cries, but anytime she’s worried or confused, or angry, her eyes swell up like storm clouds. They’re like that now, all glossy and unfocused.

  “Exactly,” I hesitate. I can’t tell whether that’s the right answer anymore.

  “Not because the warlords are animals. Not because they beat people senseless for stealing an extra ration.” Sky’s shaking her bowl so hard now that little bits of apple porridge bail out onto the grass. “Or because even though they’re prisoners too, they treat us like we’re slaves. But because Mom would be mad.”

  I look back and forth between a flushed Sky and a confused Trevor. He looks how I feel. He doesn’t say a word, though. He knows better.

  “One match, one night of cheers from the crowd, and you just—forget—that they’re monsters?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I just meant it’s pointless to even think about it. ’Cause it’s not like I’d really have a choice.”

  “But if Mom didn’t care, you’d be ready to throw on that lesser lord pelt and start doing Rolladin’s bidding. Just turn on a dime. Everyone you’ve loved and known and worked with, you’d be fine treating them like trash. And for what? Didn’t you see how they threw away Philip after he lost?”

  Of course I’d seen Philip the match loser this morning. He reached too high and got cut down, so now he’s limping around the Great Lawn like any old fieldworker. Rolladin threw him away, and no worker can stand him. He’s a one-man island now.

  “Sky, you’re totally putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say I wanted to be one—”

  “You didn’t have to.” Sky shakes her head. “It’s what you didn’t say.”

  I don’t know how to come back at that one.

  My face is on fire and my mind is racing, but I can’t find any words. I can’t retrace how we got here. Why’s she so pissed off? All I know is now I’m angry too, but I can’t pinpoint the reason. Maybe it’s because she’s angry with me.

  Or maybe it’s because Sky always makes sure I hear her feelings, but most times I can’t figure out how to voice my own.

  I break from her eyes and look down at my lunch.

  “Trev, I’m going to kick your ass,” I finally mutter into my bowl.

  “What the heck are you mad at me for?”

  “Just shut up already about the street-fighting, all right?”

  * * *

  We finish our lunches in silence before the lesser lords start poking everyone to get back to work. Trevor heads back to the zoo houses, and I follow Sky into the cornstalks. Sky settles on Mom’s left and I stand on Lauren’s right. I think we need a break from each other. It’s like this with us, sometimes.

  Most days I feel like we’re the last members of some awesome tribe. Just me, Sky, and Mom against the holdouts, the whorelords. The whole world, if they’d ever stop screwing around and end this stupid war. But sometimes Sky and I just don’t speak the same language. My sister’s always dreaming about the world beyond the skyscrapers, but the truth is, we live inside their fence. And while we do, this is the way things are. Questioning things, wishing things were different, seems like a total waste of time.

  I roll up my sleeves to start picking, still lost in thought. I know the whorelords can be assholes. Of course I know that. But sometimes bad things, used in the right way, can bring about good things—like my fight on 65th Street. It let us stay in the Park and score double rations, and earned me some respect. Being a warlord might be like that all the time, for all three of us. What’s that saying?

  The ends can justify the means.

  But I know Sky wouldn’t get this. And after sixteen years, I know it’s pointless to try to make her, even if I could find the perfect words.

  I take a deep breath to calm down, and grab a collection bucket.

  * * *

  Day bleeds into evening in the cornfields. We work in silence, picking the corn off the stalks one by one. Tearing the silky husks. Cleaning the cobs. I have to admit, I like working with my hands out here. It’s peaceful, letting the hours slide by as your fingers work in silence. The quiet massages my mind, the evening wind cools my temper. And by sunset, I’m not mad anymore. I’m just wiped. It’s a good wiped, though, a soreness that says, You’ve been useful.

  The sky finally turns dusty and pink, promises food around the corner. But it’s not until the light is nearly gone altogether that someone finally speaks.

  “Sarah,” Lauren whispers to Mom. “Look at the lords. What’s going on?”

  I follow Lauren’s gaze over the stalks, to the borders of the fields. The lesser lords are in some kind of panic, one by one racing towards the forest. And behind them is the Council of Lords—the six of them all have their fancy predator cloaks on and are fully loaded with red-tagged weapons—swords, knives, and the few guns that Rolladin keeps safe in Belvedere Castle.

  “I have no idea,” Mom whispers. “But it doesn’t look good.”

  Most of the fieldworkers have already dropped their tools and begun moving through the stalks towards the warlords. We join them, plunk the last of our corn into our collection buckets, and make our way to the front for a better view.

  “Get the rest of the lesser lords,” Lory tells Cass and a few of the other junior whorelords. “Stay back!” Lory shouts at all of us. “Whoever leaves the stalks will be shot. No exceptions.”

  Lory heads into the forest with the five other members of Rolladin’s Council, as Cass leads a few junior lords on a mad dash to the castle.

  Of course, now the cornfields are buzzing.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Could it be a holdout?”

  There’re so many questions floating around that the cornfields start to feel crowded.

  “When was the last time they found a holdout sneaking around the Park?” Sky whispers.

  “Years ago,” Mom whispers back.

  I look past Lauren and Mom to Sky, and we exchange glances. This feels major. Suddenly me becoming a warlord is the least of our concerns.

  I lea
ve Lauren’s side and go to Sky, and she gives me an anxious smile. Whatever tension existed between us from this afternoon is gone. She puts her hand on my shoulder and keeps it there, like she’s anchoring both of us. Trevor runs up beside me on my other side and pushes down the cornstalks for a better view.

  There’re gasps and shudders as Cass comes running from the northern fields with the thirty other armed lesser lords in tow. And behind the small army is Rolladin.

  This isn’t typical. Rolladin’s never in the fields. It’s beneath her. Seeing her now starts to truly freak me out.

  Plus, she’s carrying one of the island’s few assault rifles.

  “No one leaves the fields,” she roars towards us. “Or I will have your head as a doorstop.”

  She plunges into the forest. We hear yells, muffled orders, a shot ring through the air.

  “This is crazy,” Sky whispers to me. “They never use the guns.”

  No one moves their feet past the farming border, but necks are craning, fields of eyes are scanning through the dark.

  The Council slowly emerges from the forest in a wide ring, weapons extended like a mouthful of fangs. In the middle of the circle stand a crew of strangers with their hands raised. Dirty, ragged, caked in leaves and mud. There’re four of them. All males, which is kind of weird, considering how women-heavy the Park is.

  I do a quick scan.

  The oldest looks about fifty. There’s one around Mom’s age, then a tall, thin guy who looks maybe twenty-five or something, and then a teenager. The two youngest ones kind of look alike, actually; both have wild black hair that sticks up at all angles.

  Funny, these guys don’t look like crazy tunnel feeders, or even raiders, the rough bandits Mom always warns us about. They just look tired. I hear Sky’s breath quicken next to me as the men come into better view.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Rolladin’s got them. We’re safe. It’s over.”

  She looks at me fearfully but just shakes her head.

  “Fieldworkers!” Rolladin calls to the lot of us cowering in the fields. “These selfish pigs have come to rob the Park, steal your food . . . poach the fruits of your toils. What should I do with them?”