City of Savages

by Lee Kelly

  “Oh, just forget it. You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

  She grunts and thrusts the blanket over her, and the old bed moans and squeaks in protest. And I know I might have gone over the line, but I’m not apologizing. I’m tired of her, of the whole thing. The self-proclaimed stronger, braver sister. And me, just the sad little storm cloud that follows her around, threatening to rain on her parade. Of course I meant what I said to Rolladin, that I’ll never leave Phee’s side. But Phee could at least acknowledge it. She could at least pretend we’re in this together. We’re going to need each other tomorrow more than ever.

  I’m beginning to shiver a little, now that my anger has scared the whiskey away. But I don’t reach for the blanket. I don’t say anything for a long time.

  “We’ll figure this out tomorrow,” I finally whisper to Phee.

  And that’s the most I can give.

  11 PHEE

  I wake with a start. Sky’s shaking me frantically, covering my mouth for the second time tonight, I guess in case I wake up all disoriented and scream. I remind myself to tell her that the fake gag doesn’t help. I push her hand from my mouth and shake the sleep from me. She’s breathless, excited, eyes-wild, and I almost get swept up in it till I remember we’re sort of in a fight.

  “What is it?” I say as coolly as I can. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

  “Come look,” she whispers, totally ignoring my dig, as I know Sky hates the word “panties.” She runs to the window, and I sigh, throw off the blanket I’ve managed to hijack, and move beside her.

  “The men from the forest,” she says. “They’re bringing them in for the trial. Cass was talking about it on the roof, but I didn’t put two and two together.”

  Sure enough, below us some Council members are ushering the four guys from the woods into the castle. The prisoners’ hands are tied, and the whorelords have them strung up and connected by chains, like a sad bunch of flies in a spiderweb. The oldest one is in front. Then there’s the one around Mom’s age, then the thin twentysomething guy, who’s carefully trying to wiggle out of his binds, then the teenager. As the group slinks out of sight and into the castle entrance, I really see the teen’s face for the first time, without all the dirt and leaves and everything. He’s pretty cute, actually.

  “Who are they?” Sky whispers.

  “So now you want my opinion? I thought you were the one with all the answers.” I rub the sleep from my eyes. I don’t really feel like fighting with her anymore, but what she said about the 65th Street fights pissed me off.

  “Phee,” Sky says to the ground, “I was out of line before, okay? I know you’ve been through a lot. And I know you were just trying to help on the roof. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine, I’m sorry too.” I mutter. For good measure, I add, “You don’t always have lame ideas.”

  She looks at me funny, and I try to remember whether I’d said that last part out loud or not. “So, who’d Mom think the guys were again?” I change the subject. “Not feeders, right?”

  “And not raiders,” Sky whispers. “And definitely not enemy soldiers, unless, like Mom said, the English are aligned with the Red Allies against us. . . .” She trails off. “What do you think’s going to happen to these men? And why’s this trial taking place in the middle of the night, anyway? The fieldworkers and lesser lords are at the Carlyle.” She reaches for the doorknob and carefully twists it. The door releases and opens a couple of inches before a chain reminds it of its limits. “No one but the Council would even be here to see it.”

  Here’s the thing: Even though Sky’s brain could run laps around mine, it has a blind spot. I won’t bring it up again—what’s the point? Sky railed me for it last time, but honestly, I get how Rolladin thinks. And it’s this kind of stuff that Sky doesn’t understand, or even pay attention to. She can read a book in a couple of hours, recite page-long poems by heart, explain physics. But she just doesn’t get the way of the Park, or the way things work in this city.

  “She’s having a trial so she can take her list of rules and put a big fat check mark next to them,” I tell her. “All POWs get a trial, even holdouts, so she’s having a trial. No one says it’s got to be fair.”

  Sky’s eyes grow wider. “Then we might never find out who these men really are,” she says. “They might be dead by morning.”

  “Exactly. A quick, dirty trial and a fast cleanup that Rolladin can tell the whole Carlyle about tomorrow. A sketch of justice, no more, no less. And poof. It’s like they never were.”

  “No. That’s crazy. This is all insane.” She looks at the door, determined, like she’s gearing up to run through it. “Phee, I need to know who they are.” She’s got that same lunatic look in her eyes like she did when she woke me up the first time. “No more secrets.”

  “Well, what the heck can we do about it?”

  She pauses for a few seconds. “We’re going to need your gun.”

  We quickly wipe ourselves down over the washbasin in the room’s corner, since we both stink like a bottle, and Rolladin might smell us coming. Then without a sound, Sky and I take my gun and manage to stick its skinny red nose into the crack of the door, and after what feels like an eternity of jiggering, we release the chain. We snap the chain back on the door to make it look like we’re still inside, just in case any whorelords will be stalking the halls. But I doubt there’ll be anyone checking. The Carlyle’s on lockdown, after all—and Lory told Clara to make sure the whorelords hold their posts.

  We hurry down the hall in silence. This time there’s no sign language or bickering. There’s no finger pointing or words. Sky was right, this isn’t a game. After my pledge to Rolladin, us sneaking around her castle, spying on her, and betraying her from the inside out will end in our own sham of a trial. Then on a cross, hanging on 58th Street.

  But neither one of us says it. Why remind each other? Why scare ourselves shitless?

  All I have to say is, these guys’ secrets better be worth it.

  * * *

  We’re positive that the trial will be in the Great Hall. We see the room once a year, when a few “lucky” fieldworkers are picked to have Christmas dinner in the warmth of Belvedere Castle, and listen to Rolladin’s retelling of the prisoners’ emancipation from the zoo prisons to the Carlyle. She explains how she got the Red Allies to trust her, how her becoming warden gave us all a bit of our lives back. And even though the dinner’s always awesome, it’s totally weird that we always get seats at the table. Sky pesters Mom every year about why, but I’ve always written it off. Like I said, we’re not just any prisoners.

  The Great Hall is one flight up from the main floor and spans the whole length of the castle. We round down the marble stairs from our floor, and then tiptoe down the dim hallway of what should be the third level. We’re looking for the mezzanine, where Rolladin gives her speech from. It’s our best chance to hear the trial and stay hidden, before we sneak back to our rooms.

  “Do you hear that?” Sky grabs my hand and whispers to me. “This way.”

  Sky’s right. I’m starting to hear echoes of hushed conversations, and I breathe easier that we’re headed the right way. Before we reach where the light from the Great Hall puddles on the marble floor, Sky stops me and points to the ground. We crawl on our hands and knees over the hard flooring and enter the mezzanine without a sound.

  I look at Sky, point to my eyes, and then raise up my hands in confusion. How are we going to see?

  She rolls her eyes and pulls on her ear. Just listen.

  I hear boots, shuffles, then a door closes with a snap and a boom.

  “What the hell is this, Lory?” Rolladin’s voice. “Why are they here?”

  I figure she’s talking about the men from the woods, but then Lory answers, “They stayed to see the trial.”

  “I was clear as fucking crystal. I didn’t want any less
er lords here, just the Council.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” Lory stutters. “I thought it was harmless. . . .”

  “Harmless?” Rolladin gives a sharp laugh. “Please, explain. Explain how your feeble pin of a brain can construe this whole thing as harmless.”

  “Apologies, I— Then I’ll just take the lords back to the Carlyle—”

  “It’s too late for that,” Rolladin snaps. After a long silence, “Bring them all in.”

  The door swings open and smacks the wall, and then we hear more boots and clanging metal, like the sounds of some distant chain-gang parade.

  “Welcome to our humble abode,” Rolladin’s voice booms through the Great Hall. “I apologize for the chains, but I can’t be too cautious when strange men emerge from my woods.”

  A few chairs scrape against the floor below—Rolladin and her whorelords must be getting settled.

  “Gentlemen, Park rules on holdouts found poaching the Park are very clear,” Rolladin continues. “But I can be merciful, as my lords know, when the situation warrants it. So I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll spare your lives.”

  “Please, miss, we don’t understand. How could we possibly know what you want to hear?” I think the old guy, the front man for the strangers, answers.

  Rolladin says, “Because I’m going to tell you.”

  A few of the whorelords laugh.

  “Listen and repeat after me,” Rolladin continues. “You and these other sorry excuses for men are raiders from downtown. You underestimated your supplies for the winter and came up to the Park in desperation.”

  “What’s a raider?” the old guy interrupts.

  “A traitorous thief.” A big sigh from Rolladin. “We haven’t got all night. Say the words. Make this easy. ‘I and the rest of my crew—’ ”

  “Miss,” the old guy jumps in. “What do your people call you? Rolladin? You’re not—you’re not giving us a chance to speak. We’re not from downtown. We sailed from London to see if others are alive in the States—”

  “Stop,” Rolladin snaps. “Now, I’m going to give you one more chance. I understand that the best of us get disoriented, stuck on this little island. Forgotten about as this world war wages on for years.”

  There’s this weird long pause, and I look at Sky. She seems as confused as I am. Mom said raiders never travel in such big packs. And by this point, it’s pretty clear these guys aren’t enemy soldiers in disguise. Wouldn’t they be giving Rolladin orders or something, instead of the other way around?

  “But you, lads, are New Yorkers,” Rolladin says, before I can sort my thoughts out. “So whatever your warped little minds are telling you, it’s not true. They’re voices. Hallucinations. I’m sure you came over from England a long, long time ago, and you’re mixed up. I take pity, I really do. I’ve seen so many people fall to madness in these troubled times.” She takes such a big breath, I can hear her inhale from here. “But I’m not going to entertain your lies any longer. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Do you comprehend what I’m saying? So I ask you one more time to tell me what I want to hear before I render a judgment of insanity and sentence you to solitary. ‘I and the rest of these traitorous fools came to poach from the Park. I ask you to show us the lords’ mercy—’ ”

  “Rolladin,” the English leader interrupts once more, and Sky and I look at each other. These guys are finished. No one interrupts Rolladin, let alone twice. “We’re not crazy. We sailed across the Atlantic and docked at the Brooklyn Yard but a week ago. We’re here for you, for others like you. The war is—”

  “The Brooklyn Yard,” someone else mumbles. “Psychos.”

  And I know, without having to guess, that the interrupter is Cass. Her raspy voice.

  Her fat mouth.

  And even though I hate her, I shake my head in pity. Cass, you are a total idiot.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, one of my young worthless bitches apparently thinks she has something to add here,” Rolladin snaps.

  “Sorry, it’s . . . it’s just, that’s crazy,” Cass stammers. “The Brooklyn Yard’s the Red Allies’ docking port. It’s crawling with platoons . . . these guys would’ve been in body bags before they reached the shore.” She laughs high and long and terrified. “Psychos.”

  But before Rolladin can really tear Cass a new one for speaking up, the Englishman jumps in.

  “Platoons? Red Allies? Are you mad? The war destroyed everything . . . everyone. There are no Red Allies anymore. There is no England anymore. There is no America, for God’s sake! Now please. Can’t you comprehend what I’m saying?”

  12 SKY

  His words come at me like an army of arrows.

  No Red Allies.

  No America.

  The war destroyed everything.

  Is Rolladin right, are these men from the woods just sick, deranged poachers—desperate lunatics?

  Or are they the bearers of an almost impossible truth?

  Are we alone?

  Are there no soldiers camped outside the island, holding all of Manhattan prisoner?

  If no one’s out there, then what’s keeping us in?

  I want to doubt the Englishmen. I want all my instincts to rush to their feet like angry jurors and cry out, No! That’s crazy. These are empty, desperate lies.

  But deep, deep in my heart, in my bones, I somehow know. I knew it when I saw my young woodsman in the forest after the street-fights. These men are here for a reason.

  And the thick, slick snake of their truth slithers up my throat and stays there. There are no Red Allies out there anymore.

  It’s only Rolladin and her Council, keeping us penned in like animals. Keeping us small, our lives frozen in time.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  I look at Phee. Her face is contorted in confusion, her eyes glistening, and I want to hug her. I want to take her hand and run across the fields and back to Mom. I’ve never wanted to see her so badly.

  But Rolladin’s answering the Englishmen before I can even think about how.

  “Yes,” she responds icily. “I think I comprehend. My lesser lords, Darren, Cass—take these men back to the zoo. My verdict? Not guilty by reason of insanity. A life sentence of solitary confinement in the primate tower. Transfer them tomorrow.”

  “Insane? Insane?!” The Englishmen all start roaring through the marble room. “You can’t do this! You can’t keep spewing these lies!”

  “Such a tragedy.” Rolladin clucks in disapproval. “This war took so much from so many—people’s loved ones, and futures . . . and sanity.” Then I hear the steel door of the room below burst open once more and slam against the walls. “Council members, hang back a moment.”

  “Rolladin, no!” the men bellow. “Please!”

  But Rolladin doesn’t answer.

  There’s a shuffle of boots on the floor, and the heavy door is pulled shut below us, leaving Rolladin alone with her Council.

  “Rolladin, I had no idea who those men were,” Lory starts slowly. “I never would’ve brought the lesser lords if I’d known—”

  A smack of a hand, a whack of metal, the sound of flesh dragged against the floor. Then a long, guttural cry.

  “What did I tell you when I gave you that Council member cloak?” Rolladin snaps. “Now you share the truth. And you protect this city—the Park, the fieldworkers, the lesser lords—from that truth. Or don’t you remember your oath?”

  “I remember,” Lory whimpers. “Please. Please show me the lords’ mercy.” Even though I know it’s her voice, I still can’t picture this beast of a woman breaking.

  “The lords’ mercy,” Rolladin repeats slowly. Then, softer: “Those men are insane, do you all understand? It explains all their ramblings about England and traveling overseas . . . about the war being over.” She takes a deep breath. �
��We’ll tell the rest of the Park the official verdict tomorrow—that we moved the men to the primate tower. That they’ll be in solitary confinement indefinitely.”

  Silence.

  “But the Council needs to tie this up for good,” Rolladin snaps. “I don’t want any loose ends. So give that fat mouth, Cass, the order. Get her hands dirty. Shut her up.”

  I don’t understand Rolladin’s orders, but the Council must. Because there aren’t any questions.

  In fact, there’s not another sound, let alone a word, below for a long, long time.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Rolladin adds. “Tick-tock.”

  The steel doors open and shut below us, and then the Council members are gone.

  But I can’t look at Phee. Not yet. If I look at her now, I’m going to crumble, and Rolladin is still in the Great Hall, pacing below us, muttering in frustration. I keep my eyes closed, slide one of my hands around my sister’s wrist, and raise the other to my lips. Quiet. Stay quiet until she leaves.

  Finally the steel door flies open and smacks the wall below us, and Rolladin’s heavy footsteps carry her down the hall, down the stairs, back to her chambers.

  Phee slowly pokes her head above the mezzanine to check that we’re alone, but she starts whimpering before I can get a word out. “What the fuck?”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her cry.

  “Are those guys really telling the truth?” she whispers. “Is there actually no one freaking out there? But doesn’t Rolladin go to the borders every season? Haven’t we seen the fires over in Brooklyn?”

  “But . . . but that could have been the Council, for appearances,” I say slowly, putting the pieces together. “These British men could be lying, Phee. Or insane, like Rolladin’s insisting. But their accents, and how sure they seem. Besides, what holdout—insane or not—would just show up at the Park in the middle of a field day?”

  “But if those guys are legit, if—if they’re telling the truth—” Phee’s face is twisted and frustrated, her brow knitted, like she’s trying to wrangle a wild animal. “What the hell is all of this for?”