City of Savages

by Lee Kelly

  He looks at me strangely. “What about Phee?”

  “I thought you were busy cleaning your spoils together or something,” I mutter, unable to prevent bitterness from seeping into my voice.

  “Your sister can handle it.” Ryder grins. “Plus, Trevor showed up as I was leaving. And he was all too willing to lend a hand.”

  Now I can’t help but match his smile. “Phee’s never going to forgive you for that.”

  “Well, I thought Trevor might appreciate it at least.” He laughs. “He’s a good kid, isn’t he? Sounds like he’s had it rougher than most.”

  Ryder’s words warm me, gravitate me towards him like a sun. I’ve always hated that Trevor floated through the Park for half the year alone, with no one but Lauren to anchor him. Having a guy like Ryder around who cares, who gets him, would be just as good for Trevor as it would be for us. “You’re right,” I say. “He has.”

  Ryder pauses before breaking into another grin, and starts mining through the pocket of his jacket. “I got you a gift today, on the road.”

  “What—like an extra squirrel or something?”

  “No, I’m not a caveman.” He laughs. “I picked it up from the rubble. Your sister nearly killed us for all our detours, but when I found a quarter-full Barnes and Noble, I couldn’t resist. I thought everything would’ve been burned by now.”

  “We must be a lot more civilized on this side of the Atlantic,” I tease him.

  “Yes, you and that Rolladin troop are the pillars of etiquette.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t lump us together like that.”

  He pulls what he’s hiding in his jacket forward with a great flourish and presents it to me with a bowed head. “A classic for your collection.”

  I look at the front cover. A tired-eyed soldier stares back at me, the title Waverley written in looping handwriting.

  “It’s about England,” Ryder says. “A young English soldier. Some say it’s the first real historical novel.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “I think the blending of the two is the most exciting. History with poetry, fact with fiction. Sometimes I find the story aspect truer than the truth, if that makes any sense.”

  Ryder’s brow is stitched, almost like he’s nervous about how I’m going to react. I don’t know how to tell him how much this book means to me. That he thought of me when he was away. How his words just now echoed a part of me I don’t share with anyone. How I kind of want to kiss him. All I say is, “I feel the same way.”

  “Anyway, the first fifty pages or something are a bore—but get past it. I promise you, it’s worth it.”

  My hands wrap around the book so tightly my knuckles turn white. “I love it.”

  “Well,” he says mischievously, “maybe now you can finally retire that spider.”

  I watch him carefully, filled with a sudden compulsion to tell him what I really have in my hands. He’s been honest and open with me. But can I trust him? Or worse, will he think I’m terrible for stealing something so personal from someone I love, not to mention lying about it?

  “Ryder,” I say slowly, taking the risk. “This isn’t Charlotte’s Web.”

  I open the handwritten pages and turn the book around to show him the mad, frantic scrawls of ink across the page.

  “What is it?” he whispers.

  “It’s—it’s a journal. It belonged to my mom, before the war.” I look up at him for a moment but quickly break under the pressure of his gaze. “We were in her old apartment a few days ago, and I saw it and took it. Mom keeps all these memories hidden away inside. Jeez, the journal was even hidden inside a safe. It’d kill her if she knew we have it.”

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  My lips start trembling, and I know I’m about to cry. “I just wanted to know her, in a way she’ll never let us, since she’s locked so much of herself away. When I read it, I feel like we’re talking to her. And she’s saying all the things she wants to say but can’t.”

  A stray tear runs down the side of my face, and I wipe it away quickly. I definitely don’t want Ryder thinking I’m this soft, fragile girl, especially after he spent the morning hunting with my sister the Spartan. “But I’m probably saying that to make myself feel better.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less true,” Ryder whispers.

  I laugh a little, and in a brutal act of betrayal, my eyes spill more tears. Ryder reaches out and holds my hand.

  Before I can say anything else, Mom’s voice is calling down to us, echoing through the linoleum-tiled hallways and bouncing over the carpeted floor. “Sky, Ryder—I need people to set the table!”

  Ryder and I look at each other for a long time before he stands and helps me up. We don’t say a word as we navigate through the cemetery of workout equipment. It’s only once we climb the stairs, and the thick scent of stew envelops us, that Ryder whispers, “You seek the truth, and meaning, Skyler. Never think that’s a bad thing.”

  Then he squeezes my hand before he drops it, and he walks into the kitchen. I immediately want more from him.

  But I take a deep breath, shrug off one hunger in favor of another, and follow him to set our table.

  * * *

  I finally get some alone time with Phee the next day, since Sam and Ryder are hunting for supplies and food for our journey, and Trevor’s roped Mom into watching him play tennis against a wall on Level B—Tennis & Pool. Mom felt bad about leaving us alone upstairs, but I told her that Phee and I could use the time together. That it’s been awhile since we caught up.

  I wasn’t lying, technically.

  “I didn’t even know you had that thing,” Phee says incredulously, once I tell her that I read Mom’s journal yesterday. “What’d you do, go back to the Carlyle roof?”

  “I had to,” I say. “We couldn’t lose this.”

  She nods, as if she’s agreeing with me, but her eyes stay wide. “That was really dangerous.”

  “Well, there was no other choice.” I wave the book at her. “These secrets? The past? It would’ve been lost forever. We never would’ve known.”

  “No, I get it,” she whispers. She carefully picks the book up from my lap. “So you’ve been reading it, alone?”

  “Just once.” It’s not untrue, though I know it easily could’ve been. “It was when we first got here, and I couldn’t sleep.” I watch her scan the book, flip the marked pages carefully, as if there might be a hidden symbol, or a clue, that I could’ve missed. “I’m sorry I did that.”

  “It’s okay.” But Phee looks at me with eyes that want to say more. I’m desperate to say more too. For most of our lives, Phee and I have been each other’s worlds—we’ve barely been apart for longer than a hunt since I’ve been old enough to remember. And yet, sitting here, just the two of us, feels awkward—as if now there’s a library of unsaid things between us. As if now that our world’s been broken open and strangers have stepped inside, we somehow don’t recognize each other, or know what to say.

  I want to address the weirdness. Despite how mad, or envious, I am at Phee’s attempts to claim Ryder, I’m sick over the idea of not knowing how to bridge this gap. But before I can figure out how, Phee bulldozes in with, “So catch me up.”

  I relax a little. And I force myself to get excited again about the journal.

  “You’re never going to believe this.” I check behind me and across the workout room for any signs of Mom and Trevor, but we’re alone. “But Mom was pregnant with you in the tunnels. And this Mary woman? She wasn’t just Dad’s sister. She was caring for her. She was Mom’s—” I pause here. My enthusiasm falls away, and I’m suddenly very conscious that I’m talking about our own mother, not a book character.

  “Mom’s what?” Phee prods.

  “Mom’s—lover.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Shh. She could be
coming up any minute.”

  “Wait—you mean like they were a couple? Mom cheated on Dad?”

  “Yeah. It’s completely insane, right?” I wait for Phee’s outrage, her shock, her anger, the same wild roller coaster of emotions I had felt before Ryder had gratefully whisked me away.

  “She was alone,” Phee finally whispers. “All alone in the tunnels, with a baby, and another on the way. She must’ve thought Dad was dead. She must’ve thought it was the only way to survive. Oh man—can you imagine?”

  Now I’m the one who’s shocked. “Wait, so you think this is fine?”

  “Not fine but—understandable.”

  “Understandable to cheat on Dad?”

  “Sky, honestly, we don’t even know the guy.”

  This is just like Phee, to erase all the boundaries between right and wrong, to rationalize whatever’s thrown at her. But right now, her annoying pragmatism, her refusal to judge, bothers me so much that I almost want to scream.

  “But it was Dad’s sister. You heard that, right?”

  “I know, but—”

  “What if it was me? What if I was married”—I immediately think again about Ryder, which causes my face to break out in hives of embarrassment—“and you couldn’t find me? You think I’d be okay with you shacking up with my husband?” My voice keeps rising, even though I’m trying to whisper. “Because I’m not. I mean I wouldn’t be. I hope you know that.”

  “But Sky, this isn’t about you and me,” she says, so forcefully she surprises both of us.

  We stare at each other, daring the other to speak first.

  “Is it?” Phee finally adds.

  And this is my chance to say something, to tell her that, Yes, there is something about you and me that isn’t right. That feels like it’s dying.

  “No, obviously.” I try to regroup and get back to the book. “Anyway, Mom’s pregnancy with you wasn’t going so easy in the tunnels,” I mumble to the journal, my voice still shaking from our tension, trembling, preparing to pounce. “That’s where I left off.”

  We position ourselves against the window without another word.

  September—One of our surface scouts, Lauren, came back with news. Huge news. Potentially life-changing news.

  “We found missionaries on the surface, while we were in Whole Foods,” the once well-dressed woman from the subways started sputtering. Lauren wore a dead soldier’s uniform, and it hung loosely on her frame. “They came from the West Side, and they’re caring for people in the subways. The missionaries told us there’s going to be some kind of . . . of convention down here, for survivors. From the 1 line, the 2, the F train, the R line . . .”

  The 1 and 2 trains. The lines Tom and Robert would’ve used to get to the studio.

  “There’re still other groups of scavengers hiding in the subways, and in the city—”

  “Lauren, cut to the chase,” Mary barked.

  “Tomorrow, at noon,” she answered breathlessly, “every group’s going to send a representative to the tracks at the West Fourth subway stop, on the uptown E train track. With a list of names of their survivors, and who they’re looking for. Don’t you see? My son—your daughters and husbands and sisters and brothers—might be out there!”

  The crowd fell into disarray, shouts and laughter and tears. Lauren whispered stories about her son to the Kansas women, Bronwyn prayed to God for her boyfriend from NYU.

  But I only had eyes for Mary, to see what she was thinking.

  Hope. Tom. Our lives. Tom and Robert could be out there. My God, they could be out there.

  I grabbed Mary’s hand and tried to get her to look at me, to share what she was thinking, but she shrugged me off and talked over the crowd.

  “We don’t know who these people are. They could be lying.”

  Lauren shook her head. “This is real. We need to meet them. I promised—”

  The crowd turned in to itself again, whispering, arguing, until Mary finally shouted, “Enough. All right. I’ll go. As our leader, it should be me.”

  And even though the possibility of finding Tom had my nerves electrified, my stomach plummeted. “Wait, Mary, no. Send someone else, it’s too dangerous.”

  “You can’t go alone, Mary,” Mrs. Warbler agreed.

  “Fine. I’ll take someone with me. Sarah, rip a page from your book. Pass it around. We all write our names and our missing loved ones next to them tonight.”

  September—I’m a mess. Vomiting, dry heaving, shakes. I can no longer stand without feeling dizzy. Lauren is kindly taking care of Sky as I lie here, sick and sobbing, on makeshift bed rest in the corner. Mary and Dave must be at West 4th Street by now, determining our fate. Figuring out who’s left. God, I hope she’s safe. I hope Tom’s safe.

  I’m terrified.

  My feelings are warring inside me, guilt and anger and longing. If Tom’s alive, have I ruined everything?

  September—The next day Mary stumbled back to us covered in blood. Alone.

  I wanted to rush to her, but I was cemented to the ground.

  “What happened?”

  “Who hurt you?”

  “Where’s Dave?”

  Mary just shook her head and collapsed as the crowd swarmed around her.

  “They killed him. They almost killed me,” she whispered.

  Lauren gasped and clutched Sky to her. “That can’t be. They promised, they seemed like us. Trustworthy—oh God, Mary, I’m so sorry.”

  Mary motioned for water, and one of the young orphans, Lory, opened a jug and brought it to her.

  “The E-train summit started out calmly enough, reading and comparing names, asking one another how we’ve been surviving. But the lists revealed nothing. There weren’t any matches.”

  She rolled onto her side to rest and moaned from the pain. “I did find out a little. The enemy is headquartered in Central Park. It’s dispatching its ground forces from there. The Lower East Side, the Piers, most of Chelsea and the Villages, are gone.” She exhaled. “As Dave and I were heading back home, they jumped us. They stole our weapons, they finished Dave off. You see what’s left of me.”

  The crowd helped clean Mary’s wounds. No one spoke as we retreated into our dark corners and relinquished the hope that we had secured without credit.

  Late into the night, Mary finally came to me. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to tell her that I’d take care of her now, that at least she was safe.

  But I couldn’t. First I needed to know.

  “You said the E-train summit compared lists, before they hurt you,” I pressed her, my voice cracking from disuse. “Did you ask about Tom and Robert? Did anyone know them?”

  It was a long time before she said anything. “They weren’t on any list, Sarah.”

  I shrugged off her answer. “Then they made it to the studio,” I said matter-of-factly. “We could send someone up, to the surface—”

  “Sarah,” she interrupted as she rubbed her fight wounds with alcohol. “I’m sorry, baby, but I need you to give up chasing Tom’s ghost. Robert’s art studio is in Chelsea. In shambles. Wrecked. Sarah, they didn’t survive.”

  “But—” I let the word hang there, like bait on a hook, prayed that I’d catch something, anything. A glimmer of hope. A concession.

  “Sarah. It’s time to let them go,” Mary told me softly. But firmly. “It’s time to face reality. It’s time to let them go.”

  It was a long time before either of us moved. Finally I turned away from her.

  I got on my hands and knees and crawled. Nothing, no one, could soothe me as I cried. Sky must have wiggled away from Lauren and scrambled beside me, mimicking me, wailing, until I pulled her in and hugged her fiercely, our tears running together.

  Mom. Tough, stoic . . . fragile . . . Mom. I’m crying as I listen to her, young and broken in the belly of a d
ying city. All my judgment and my anger about her and Mary fall away. And just like all those years ago, I want to run to Mom and bury my head in her shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” Phee says. Her hand snaps forward, reaching for me like a reflex, but then it retreats back to her side. “This was a long time ago, Sky. Mom’s okay.”

  I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “Right.”

  October—I’m not human anymore.

  I’m just bodily functions and urges. Eat, throw up, bleed, cry. Mary is beyond worried. And the whispers—all I hear is the whispers.

  “Hemorrhaging.”

  “Hyperemesis.”

  “She won’t make it, not without a doctor.”

  I try not to listen as I slip in and out of consciousness.

  October—“We’re getting you to the surface,” Mary said, and I realized I was being carried on a wide life raft of some sort, a makeshift stretcher.

  “Where’s Sky?” I mumbled. I didn’t know how long I’d been out.

  “She’s with Lauren and Bronwyn. She’s safe, baby. We’re leaving the tunnels.”

  “Mary, no—” I struggled to get the words out. “Not on my account. They’ll kill us up there.”

  She grabbed my hand. “I put it to a vote. People are tired of hiding. We can’t do this forever.” She leaned in and stroked my hair as the crowd carried me forward. “I can’t live without you, and you and the baby will die down here. We’re surrendering.”

  “Everyone?” I managed.

  “No, not everyone. Only those who are smart. Those who can fend for themselves. Survival of the fittest.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. It might have been my first one in weeks. “I’m hardly the fittest.”

  “Well,” she said, kissing me as I was propelled forward. “The fittest and those they love.”

  They carried me on the stretcher, like an offering, and we emerged out of the tunnels and into the light, blinded, stumbling around like drugged animals towards the fields. I got down and leaned against Mary, and slowly, we walked forward. Bronwyn brought Sky to me, and I clutched her like a doll.

  Light, oh how I missed you.

  Grass.

  Air.