On the appointed night, at the appointed hour, they stole out of their houses. Little shadows came from everywhere in the village, weaving through bushes and trees and orange tape, all heading to the oldest, deepest mud spot in town, one of the first ever designated areas. In their arms, the children carried bedsheets, ragged towels, strips of gunnysacks, old tattered samfu bottoms. They worked quickly, twisting each item into a rope and tying them together. The moonlight that shone down on them gave a pallor to their hands, and their fingers appeared a ghostly white as they knotted and pulled, knotted and pulled.
They looped the rope around the waist of the strongest boy in the village, and then the waist of the next strongest boy, and the next, and the next, until all the children were strung together, and then they tied the end of the rope to one of the sturdy stilts of a nearby house. The idea being that the first boy would lower himself into the mud, allow the fingers to wrap themselves around his calves, but then, instead of jerking away, let them take hold of him. Once the creature had its grip, the boy would plunge his hands into the mud, and grab the fingers around his legs. With their collective strength, they would pull the creature out of hiding. Several of the children from fishing families had snuck nets from their fathers’ boats and would have these at the ready for when the monster emerged. It would then be up to the children of the butchers and fishmongers. In their hands glinted their parents’ sharpest knives, stolen from busy kitchens and market stalls earlier that day.
The children checked the ropes, the nets, the knives. Everything was ready. They watched as the strongest boy stepped one foot over the orange tape, then the other. Nothing happened at first, and they thought perhaps that patch had dried over, become regular solid ground. But then he began to sink, the mud sending up soft burps around him. He held his arms out high above his head as he sank, as if getting into position for his mother to undress him before bed.
When he had sunk thigh-deep, his face changed, and the children knew that the fingers were creeping across his skin. The boy grimaced and his eyes widened, but being brave as he was, he stayed put, sinking deeper and deeper into the mud. The children waited for the signal. When the mud was up to his hips, the boy plunged his arms into the ground as planned, grabbing the creature that had its grip on him.
“Pull!” he shouted, and the children pulled.
The boy began to emerge from the mud, but as his body inched out of the earth, birds rose from the bushes and the trees around them began to sway. A strange rushing noise filled the air, a noise that sounded like the night itself was whispering a warning. And yet the children kept pulling, their hearts full of bravery and the best of intentions.
“Pull!” he shouted again.
Now the ground began to shake, and the moon itself, so bright, so perfectly round, began to tremble in the sky. The children kept pulling. The boy’s knees could now be seen.
“Pull!”
It was then that the trees began to sink into the ground, their ancient, twisting trunks slipping lower and lower into the earth. Yet still the children pulled.
Finally the boy’s hands were visible, as were his calves, and around them were the fingers of the creature. Except what they had thought were fingers were in fact thick vines with tendrils protruding from their length, all firmly wrapped around the boy’s feet and hands. Roots, the boy realized. The children stared in wonder, little hands growing slack on the rope.
Then the trees began to pull back.
Again the ground and sky shook, again the air was filled with a strange whispering. But this time it wasn’t the trees that were sinking, it was the children. First the boy in the mud patch disappeared, his glossy black hair vanishing beneath the mud like an exotic plant subsumed into the soil. Then the next-strongest boy, tied to him on the rope, was drawn kicking and screaming into the earth. Then the next child, and the next. They tried to pull back but it was no use; the trees were stronger than them, of course they were.
Child after child disappeared into the ground, their wet, gurgling cries awakening the parents and drawing them out of their houses. When they saw what was happening, the parents tried to grab on to the children, but were also drawn inexorably into the earth. The trees kept pulling still; the rope of bedsheets and towels proved fatal.
Eventually the last child was sucked into the ground, and along with her, the last parent. Now the night was quiet. Only the wind in the trees and the dull crash of waves was to be heard. Until the stilts of the house to which the children had tied themselves began to creak, a high, keening noise like the cry of an injured bird. The creak ended in a snap that brought the house to its knees, pulling it, too, into the earth.
The trees didn’t stop until all the houses were gone, all the fences, all the wheelbarrows, all the clothes carefully strung out to dry earlier that day. When it was over, nothing remained to suggest that a village had ever been there at all, except for one mossy corner beneath an old tree, where, protruding from the earth, was a piece of muddy orange tape.
Carbon Footprint
SHELLY ORIA
Sometimes you gotta risk your life to survive, Jack says and shrugs. He means we need to keep taking the subway: hope for the best, take precautions. We’re no car owners, and with the market skyrocketing like it has, that’s not changing anytime soon. We can’t afford cabs, either, which have gotten much pricier these last few weeks. He’s not wrong, my husband. I touch the bone at the top of his shoulder, then slide my fingers halfway to his neck. It’s a beautiful manbone, one that exudes power. It’s got a name, that bone. I stayed in school long enough to know what I don’t know.
My husband flexes his muscles at the touch of my hand. It’s what men do: you touch their shoulder bone, they show you strength. There’s plenty of ways to manipulate the man you love, and most of them you learn by watching. Overall you could say watching is the sort of thing I’ve done too much of in my life. I started early, too. First time I saw a man’s chest harden at judgment I don’t think I was twelve, even. And then I saw that same man’s chest buckle at the soft sound of a compliment, and I learned that all can happen in the span of a moment if the woman’s a good twister of words, a good singer of their music. Jacks, I say, baby. I sigh, a whisper of air. I’m not brave like you.
My husband feels guilty when I say these words; I can see the color of blame in his eyes. He wishes his schedule allowed him to walk me to the subway whenever I left our apartment. And in his wishing he imagines me a more powerful woman than I am. Your spine is made of little eyes and ears, baby, he tells me. Whenever I open the fridge for a beer, you yell from the bedroom. “Easy on the fizz, Jacks.” A Pusher try to make a move on you on the platform? Next thing, we’re at his funeral, offering condolences to his mama.
I say this to Betty Boop the next day on the phone, I say maybe Jack’s right, maybe I’ve been more scared than I need to be. I say, It’s true that I got better instincts than most. Betty says it ain’t right.
Betty and I have been friends since the first nursing home we both worked at, and the thing about spending your days with old people is you get in the habit of saying exactly what you think. As your man he should make sure you buddy up when he’s not around, she says. Buddying up is what’s considered safe now, ever since Pushers started popping up, shoving or kicking people in front of trains. They believe they’re saving the planet, according to most rumors, but I don’t see how that can be right. I buddy up with you, I tell Betty Boop. When you do it’s no thanks to him, she says. She exhales with agitation. Maybe he mean well, she says, but telling you a Pusher’s got nothing on you can get in your head, make you less alert. People die that way all the time, she says. About a hundred people a day, to be exact: across boroughs and stations, men, women, and children. Don’t worry about me, I say.
Betty Boop is what Jack calls Betty, and I guess it got in my head. Sometimes I almost slip and call her that to her face. She’d slap you if she heard, I say to Jack. What? he says. It’s a compliment.
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The next day after our shift, Betty and I walk down the subway stairs and hit a storm of people. Betty looks at me. This ain’t right, she says. She wants us to U-turn. What, and walk? I say. I want to get home in time to cook dinner for Jack. He’s been having a hard time: work stress, subway stress. Last night he woke me up shaking. I dreamt you died, he said, I dreamt they pushed you. Oh, baby, I said. I rocked him like a child until we both fell back asleep. Fine, Betty says, fine. She shakes her head at me. She keeps looking around, keeps looking everywhere. I do the same to show her we got this. The thing about a crowded platform, you’re not guaranteed to stay far enough from the tracks to be safe. A wave of bodies rises and falls; I reach for Betty’s hand and clench air. I yell her name and the sound is swallowed in the echo. Squeals pierce the air as bones meet gravel. Wheels roll over, then screech to a halt as they do, as they always do, as if in surprise. Trains will be out of commission now for a few hours, until the bodies are removed. I tell myself it’s fine. This has happened before—we’ve lost each other in the crowd. I imagine that I see Jack in the distance; my mind plays this trick on me sometimes when I need comfort. As I climb back up the stairs, my body knows something bad just happened. I call Betty again and again when I get home, text her a million question marks. My breath aligns itself to the web page: inhale on every refresh, exhale on every new list of names that doesn’t include Betty’s. And then her name is there, staring at me, daring me to stare back. I look away. I turn my back on that screen and go curl up into myself in bed, where I stay for days.
Jack makes pots and pots of tea, leaves full trays on the nightstand even though the food goes to the trash every morning. I keep the blinds shut to keep the darkness in. Jack knows to let me grieve. But on the third or maybe fourth or maybe fifth day, he enters the room with intention. You gotta eat, he says. I want to ignore him and go back to sleep, but his shoulders are big and I know he has something important to say. I’m not hungry, I tell him. See, the thing is, baby, he says, a body gets weak without food, and we need you strong for Friday. In the dark of the room I can barely make out his face but I squint at him like we’re in the sun. What’s Friday? I ask. Your initiation, he says. I’ve heard rumors about Pushers’ initiation ceremonies but that can’t be what Jack is talking about. I sit up and reach for the light switch, but Jack’s hand is faster. There’s nothing to see right now, he says. He leans over and puts his other hand over my heart. Listen to what you already know, he says. He’s standing over me in an awkward position that would be funny any other time. And maybe it’s the shock, or maybe I don’t believe Jack’s saying what I think he’s saying, but whatever the reason: what I do is tickle his armpit. Jack collapses on the bed in surprise. He looks at me. Is that a yes? he whispers. You’ll join the underground? I see terror in his eyes, or maybe the terror is inside me. Why do I feel like I don’t have a choice? I whisper back. I want Jack to say, Don’t be crazy, baby. What he says instead is, None of us have a choice; our home is on fire. I know he means the planet but I’ve never heard Jack worry about the state of the Earth; we don’t even recycle. And pushing people is going to . . . kill the fire? I ask. They have data, baby, he says, real data, not the bullshit in the news. We’re on the express line to nonviability, and mass death is the only means of disruption. If anyone asked me yesterday, I would have bet my life on Jack not knowing what any of these words meant. Guess if I did that, I’d be dead now.
It is almost dawn when I wake up. Jack is sitting on his side of the bed staring at me. I don’t remember how we fell asleep. I don’t remember anything at first, but then I do, and the memory hits like the kick of a foot to a soft part. Who are you? I ask. Don’t be crazy, Jack says. What happens to me if I say no? I ask. You won’t, Jack says. Were you there that day, I ask, when Betty . . . ? Jack closes his eyes. I want you to know something, he says. The feeling you get from pushing a body? You haven’t been alive until you’ve known that rush. The inside of my mouth is turning to cement. Jack offers his hand to me. Let me show you, he says. Let me take you to the tracks.
We Came Here for Fun
ALANA MOHAMED
When we found the body it was late. We had gone to Terry’s place after Darren messed with some cops. “Just to check in,” we all said. She hadn’t been around in a minute. But really, we just needed somewhere to drink.
Darren smashed a window and we all climbed in, young drunken limbs tangled together. We moved like a five-headed beast in heat. We were giddy at our own genius: outrunning the cops, some light b&e. We were a force everything else had to react to.
So that’s why, when we found the body, no one wanted to see it. School was out. It was time to work full days flipping burgers and let the oil seep out of us at night along with beer and piss and whatever else was haunting our bodies. That’s why no one paid attention to Johnny when he screamed.
“Johnny, you’re seeing things,” we told him. We stepped over the body to get to the couch across her tiny living room. He hiccupped in protest. Terry had always loved him best. We hadn’t seen her in days. She looked awful, bloated and pale with a bluish tint to her. It didn’t matter. We were there to have a good time and we were going to have a good time.
I settled on the floor with Darren, his body hot with anticipation. Our backs rested against the couch, angled at such a degree that, if we tried, we didn’t have to see Terry at all. We lit candles to savor the dark. Johnny stood just short of the body, looking down as if she were a test he hadn’t studied for.
Sometimes it made sense not to see Terry for a while. She had dropped out of school and gotten a real job. She was assistant manager at the diner where she fed us doughnuts and refused us beer. I hated her preference for glazed bullshit.
“Wonder where Terry got off to,” Jane said to no one.
“Terry’s dead, she’s right there,” Johnny insisted, his voice cracking. Terry had given Johnny a job when no one else would. He was a fan of the doughnuts.
“Johnny, baby, we’re just here to have a good time,” we tried to explain to him. We weren’t here to find a dead body. We urged him to have a lie down on the couch instead, but he backed up even closer to the window, as if he’d be able to slither back out and rewind time.
Terry once told me I had potential. She meant it kindly, but everyone has potential at sixteen.
I used mine to steal beer from work. That night we were drinking the one that turns blue in the cold. Terry’s lips looked more ready to drink.
“It smells in here,” Johnny said. “How can you not smell that?”
“That’s just the smell of the city,” Jane argued. We listed the possibilities. The garbage slush wafting through the broken window, the hint of a gas leak no one could ever afford to fix. Old laundry, moldy bread.
“The smell is coming from right here,” Johnny yelled, pointing.
“I think you’re having a bad trip, man,” Raf said, sprawled out in Jane’s arms. We nodded solemnly.
Johnny started to cry, like an idiot. “Why can’t you guys see it?”
“See what?”
“The body! Her body.” Johnny sputtered. His hand waved over her without making contact.
“Sorry, whose body?”
“Terry’s!” It was hard to hear him through the sobs.
“Johnny, what are you talking about?” Darren said with alien sweetness. “Terry’s in Miami.”
“Miami?”
“Yeah, she said we could use her place, remember?” Raf and Jane were holding back giggles, their catching breath a dare. I kept waiting for Johnny to hear it, grab Terry’s mottled face, and call our bluff.
But Johnny just stared at the hole we had made in the window. “Why did we have to break in, then?” The uncertainty in his voice filled me with disgust, with glee. The world kept bending to accommodate us.
“More fun that way.” Darren shrugged.
Johnny had stopped hyperventilating, but still wouldn’t step over the body. “I’m not having fun,” he sai
d.
“That’s ’cause you’re standing there like an idiot,” Darren said. “Have a drink.” He left my side and in two steps he stood on her chest—its chest. Something cracked. He held a beer out to Johnny, and I shivered.
Johnny hesitated a second too long. Darren made a sound of practiced ambivalence that I recognized from being the bearer of his bad news. When the world denied him his whims, he would blow air from between his lips, shrug, and walk away. He did it then, letting go of the bottle and leaping off Terry’s sinking chest. It rolled my way.
Terry never liked Darren much. She claimed he lacked moral fortitude. I always thought he was just bored.
“We should do something,” he announced, then added, “to take Johnny’s mind off things.”
“Yeah! Let’s raid her room,” Jane said. Everyone ambled over to Terry’s closet, like it would hold anything more than her beige, couponed work uniforms.
I reached for the beer, the body in my eye line. She was wearing an oversized shirt, no knickers.
The last time I saw her, she was on duty in those dumb beige pants. I hadn’t wanted to see her, but we needed the money since one of Darren’s moneymaking ventures had gone to shit. She had sat me down in a roomy booth. We split a doughnut while I feigned interest in scheduling and sick employees. “Oh, everything’s fine,” I had cut in when she took a breath. “Everything’s fine, except I need an abortion and, you know, the clock’s been ticking down for a few days, weeks, whatever.”
She had gasped and looked sorry for me. She said she’d give me the money, of course, but that I needed to be careful. That I had so much potential. My eyes glazed over and wouldn’t unstick until she pulled out her wallet.
My potential was still intact, baby or no. But I knew she thought I was stupid enough to let one happen to me, which was the worst part of the scam. All Darren knew was that she walked around with cash. When she pressed the bills into my hands, I only smarted a little.
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