“Okay Puppy, now you want to kill the First Cousin?” Annette asked, alarmed.
“Someone better,” Kenuda said grimly.
“You can.”
Kenuda nodded to himself, glancing at F-26 fighters taking off on the vidnews. “There are also other protocols that can be implemented in an emergency. Every First, Second and Third Cousin had a corresponding contact outside the country in case something blew up. They’re called Collectors. I believe because they all own antique shops featuring the shattered Judeo-Christian world.” He laughed bitterly. “Mine’s in London.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to England,” Annette said cheerfully.
“Good. Because there’s a plane,” Kenuda said. Their mouths dropped. “Leaves once a week from Westchester. That’s all this says.” Elias dropped another packet onto the coffee table.
“A plane. Okay. So I, sorry, we go to London. Then what?”
“You stop World War Four and a nuclear holocaust.”
“Well put, Elias. You’ve totally appealed to Puppy’s sense of destiny,” Annette said.
Clary made rat-tat-tat sounds at a F-26 shooting down a Holy Drone. The adults pursed their lips. Puppy sat beside the little girl.
“Bang bang. Crusaders matar Allah,” he said softly.
“Si. Finalmente.” Clary threw up her hands expressively.
“But matar bad. Puppy stop it.”
“No, matar Allahs.” She bared her teeth.
He shook her shoulders. “Too many die. Puppy’s amigos. Clary’s amigos. Clary’s Mama. Clary’s Papa.” Her mouth quivered. “No more matar.”
Clary was unconvinced, staring sullenly.
Annette sat on the other side. “Puppy and I go.”
The girl sighed wearily and started putting on her shoes, muttering darkly.
Annette took away the sneaker. “Honey, we have to go alone.”
Clary’s eyebrows knitted angrily. “No Clary?”
“Too dangerous. Bang, bang,” Puppy said.
“Clary not scared. Clary help.”
“You stay here and we’ll come back,” Annette said.
Clary’s eyes flitted between them. Her mother had told her not to worry. Her father had told her not to worry. And where was Zelda and el bebe? She snatched back the sneaker and continued lacing up.
“Clary go.” She calmly put on her coat and adjusted her sunglasses. “No matar Allahs.” She curtsied. “Clary nice to Allahs.”
Annette cupped Clary’s face to stop it from shaking no. “We love you.” She looked at Puppy. “How do you say we love you in Spanish?”
“You just did.” Puppy hugged the tearful Clary. “You stay with Uncle Kenuda.”
Clary made a feral sound and stared hungrily at the Third Cousin’s shin.
• • • •
ANNETTE COMPLAINED INCESSANTLY as they edged down the Grand Concourse at three in the morning. It was cold. It was windy. Her back hurt from carrying the backpack stuffed with clothes. She had blisters on her feet. The sneakers were ugly.
If so much weren’t at stake, she would’ve welcomed the butt end of a BT’s rifle.
“You have your ID right?”
Puppy patted his jacket pocket.
“And the passes?”
“Yes, Annette,” he said impatiently, ducking beneath a bent light pole.
“Can I see them?”
“No.”
“I think I should hold them.”
“I’m not ten years old.” They turned left down the hill on 161st Street and walked a block in silence except for Annette’s soft obscenities.
“Are you upset about your father?”
“Please.”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“Quiet would be better in a shoot on sight curfew.”
“Were you surprised?”
Puppy flushed. “I told you. It’s bullshit. He was a disgusting person. The Miners couldn’t be that desperate.”
“I never met him.”
“Because he was already dead.”
“They never showed you the body after they supposedly found him in an alley.”
He whirled. “Are you saying he’s still alive?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t know he was a terrorist.”
“He wasn’t a damn terrorist.”
Annette leaned on his shoulder and rubbed her calf. “His brother came to our wedding. Your Uncle Clem.”
He resumed walking and she nearly fell.
“We wouldn’t let him in.” Annette hobbled after him. “Me, Zelda and Pablo. We figured it would upset you too much. He gave us a present.”
Puppy waited for her to catch up. “Are you going to tell me it was an orange wig, boom, proof of my father’s secret life?”
“No. The present was from Clem. Your father was supposedly already dead.” She made an annoyed sound and rubbed her other calf, warning him with a glare not to move again. “It was a toaster. I figured it’d bother you so I gave it to Pablo. I guess he gave it to Zelda because she still has it. That’s how you grilled up the last piece of bread today.”
He laughed at the nonsense of it all.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said.
“You forget nothing.”
Annette pressed a tissue against her face from the stench of smoldering bodies. “It stinks.”
He didn’t care. Puppy took Annette’s hand, but she refused to move.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To say good-bye.”
“Just wave.” She showed him a cheerful wave. “Good-bye Yankee Stadium. You crushed my dreams and helped wreck my marriage. Now you crushed my heart again. How’s that?”
Puppy glowered. “Okay, stay out. I’ll be back soon.”
Annette considered the piles of debris and weapons shells, a perfect playground for the family of rats crawling towards her. She pulled alongside Puppy by Gate Six.
“I hate you for this.”
“I know.” He shushed her.
“Someone’s still here?”
“Probably not.” ‘Bots were punctual about work days; no humans were involved in the cleanup.
He guided Annette over a mound of broken concrete and into the ballpark. Large burn marks carpeted the ground. Holes gauged the walls and floors. Like opening day, he thought sadly.
“Are we done now?”
Annette didn’t like the way he laughed. She stubbed her toe twice and scratched her elbow breaking a fall on the first level. Puppy was oblivious. He walked around like the lights were on and the crowd was cheering.
Puppy took shallow breaths and dragged her to a narrow clump of infield grass not buried beneath the pavement; the ‘bots had started pouring concrete over the field, sealing in the memories. All around, the seats were smashed, the dugouts non-existent except for the shards of the water fountains. The right side of the upper deck was completely blown off and the completely fallen scoreboard smothered both bullpens.
“Why must you torture yourself?” Annette gently touched his arm.
He ignored her, looking around. Frecklie’s banners fluttered at the top of the left field stands. She followed his stare.
“No Puppy, forget it.”
Annette was sweating and swearing when they finally reached Section 340. She plopped onto a creaky seat and stubbornly folded her arms. He kissed her cheek. “Catch me if I fall.”
“That’s not funny.” She followed him up the aisle. He stopped five rows from the top, then took a running jump, grabbing onto the brocade.
“What the hell are you doing?” Annette shouted several times as he lifted himself high enough to snatch the Cubs and Yankees banners off the flag poles. Puppy dangled for a moment, looking down into the dark Bronx.
Something sizzled and he quickly jumped off. A lone light bulb flickered, somehow set off by his climbing.
“I do not ever want you doing that again,” Annette said shakily.
“Ssh. Look. The light.”<
br />
“Oh, do you want to take a bulb to London, too, assuming we’re not shot in a few minutes.” Annette stared at his lopsided grin. “What, Puppy, what?”
He threw debris at the lights, admiring his work from several different angles. Annette gave up understanding and obstinately ate their only candy bar. Finally, Puppy led her down to the second level.
“I saw some bodies.” Annette panted outside the control room.
“Probably.” Puppy shoved aside the rocks from the door. “Can you help me?”
“You mean move those big rocks?”
Puppy fumbled on the floor behind the console, which was still plugged in. He remembered the A21’s tutorial. Two different lines, one external, one internal. He searched another couple minutes and found the black circuit breaker. He turned on the switch and the console coughed.
Lights on the upper left field deck flickered and died. Come on, please, come on, he gently rubbed the console. A few more lights stayed on, then spread, popping like gunfire in the silence; Annette watched in amazement.
“How did you make that work, Puppy?”
“I prayed.” He grinned.
The lights spelled 4GIVE, surrounded by the broken bulbs.
In the black, moonless night ordered by First Cousin Cheng, Acting Parent of the Family, it was easy to see the lights. Maybe someone went to the bathroom or quieted their child or hushed a barking dog and told a neighbor. Soon the rooftops of the Bronx were filled with silent, awed crowds spilling into the streets. The BTs couldn’t kill everyone. Besides, they were watching, too.
At dawn, fighter jets finally demolished Yankee Stadium.
44
The Westchester Airport terminal was black with BT uniforms as if a world of bugs had crawled out of the vents. The BT fingered their IDs.
“Commissioner Kenuda, what brings you here?”
“Government business.”
“We’re all on government business, sir.”
Puppy stiffened, waiting for the roar of three fighter jet formations to pass. “Then you know I can’t answer that.”
The BT glanced at Annette, slightly wide-eyed at being in an airport for the first time.
“And you, ma’am?”
“I’m with my fiancé.” She hoisted her engagement ring a defiant inch from the visor.
“Papers.”
Annette sourly handed over their betrothal agreement which the BT studied, never raising his mask. He handed it back and stared a little longer at Puppy.
He held his breath. Similar physique, just a shade different coloring than Elias. Who’d expect the assassin of Grandma to calmly walk into a BT base?
The Black Top lifted its visor; Annette gasped slightly. The ‘bot’s pale veiny face surrounded large, blue metallic eyes circling clockwise and counter-clockwise. Silver lips pursed intently, flaring the thin, sharp nose, deliberating for an agonizing few seconds.
The BT returned the papers. “Cargo plane’s to the left, Commissioner. Gate 1A.”
Annette gave the ‘bot a last frightened look as they turned down a corridor.
“It had a face, Puppy,” she whispered.
He waited for a squad of BTs to pass with brief salutes. Millions, Cheng had promised. Puppy looked at the swarm of Black Tops and shivered.
An impatient A39 with a thick furry hat scowled as they climbed the steps into the stripped down Mohawk 205, giving their IDs a diffident glance.
“I gotta schedule here. Hurry up. Buckle in.”
The faceless ‘bot waited until they navigated around four burlap sacks and strapped into raggedy jump seats, then grumbled at his watch and disappeared into the cockpit. The plane bounced down the runway and rose shakily into the air.
“Is it going to be like this all the way?” Annette was pale.
“I hope not.”
Neither of them had ever flown. Like obedient children, they sat quietly, desperate to pee, seriously considering vomiting, until the ‘bot returned and yanked off its hat, grinning meanly.
“First-timers, huh?”
Annette nodded. “I really have to go to the bathroom.”
“Who’s stopping you?” He grumpily pushed aside Annette’s fumbling fingers and undid the belt; she lurched into the bathroom holding her mouth. The ‘bot frowned. “She better clean up.”
Puppy smiled over Annette’s loud retching. “How long’s the flight?”
“Five hours.” The ‘bot held up its hand. “I been delivering the mail for thirty years. Never had a problem.”
Puppy frowned. “Mail?”
“What the hell did you think was in there?” The ‘bot’s eyes rotated angrily as Annette heaved again. “What kind of supervisor are you?”
“A badly informed one.” Puppy managed a weak smile. “So Americans can write to people in Muslim Europe?”
The ‘bot looked like its head was about to blow up, aggravated by Annette stumbling back into her seat, head between her legs, moaning.
“Why not? Grandma insisted it be part of the truce. You really don’t know nothing, do you?”
Puppy shrugged and rubbed Annette’s neck; she suddenly looked up at the ‘bot, horrified.
“Who’s flying the plane?”
“It’s on automatic. Don’t worry,” it snarled as Annette’s forehead touched the cold floor. “Ain’t never crashed yet.”
They heard the ‘bot chuckling in the cockpit over that one for a while. Slowly Annette sat up.
“How are you not sick?” she asked wonderingly.
“The power of being a Third Cousin.” Puppy pulled a bag over. “You got a blade?”
“If I did, I would’ve cut my throat already.”
Puppy tugged on the bag, but it was tied too tightly.
“It’s private mail, Puppy.” With an exasperated sigh, Annette slid a thin finger into the knot and together they yanked open the bag.
“What if it catches us?”
“I guess we learn to parachute.”
Puppy draped his jacket over her shivering body and opened a letter addressed to PFC Karen Bishop.
“It’s to a soldier,” he said. Annette wanly rested her chin on his shoulder, reading along.
“’Dearest Karen, Everyone is fine here. Gramps is recovering from that scare with his heart. Too much chocolate cake I say. Regina’s going to farming school up in Waukuh. Hope they’re treating you well. Love, Dad.’”
Annette reached into the bag and opened an envelope addressed to Lt. T’hom W’ashington. A photo fell onto her lap. She read softly, “’My T’hom, Jonas had a wonderful birthday. He got a ton of presents. Let me know if the sweater fits. Love ‘J’ames.’”
They studied the photo of a little boy with dark curly hair and sad eyes. Puppy pulled out a handful of envelopes. “All to soldiers.”
Annette frowned helplessly at the filthy floor and carefully joined him on her hands and knees, tossing aside more envelopes. “We don’t have soldiers in ME anymore, do we?”
“Not with guns.” He thought a second and ripped open a few more letters, reading quickly. “All these letters are like the soldiers are still on duty. Shit, Annette. Shit. They must be POWs.”
“Weren’t they all returned after the war?”
“Guess not.”
“How much did Grandma forget to tell us, Puppy?”
He was too exhausted to consider that. They fell asleep in each other’s arms for a few hours, woken by the clattering of a metal dish dropped at their feet.
“We land in half an hour.” The ‘bot shuffled back into the cockpit.
They about inhaled the powdered eggs and dry toast, strapping back in as the cargo plane drifted over the brown and green English countryside, decay clearly winning. Wilted crops guarded crumbling farmhouses, sleek trucks and cars indifferently whizzing past on wide, modern highways as if on two disconnected worlds.
The plane skirted a broad billboard where a menacing Allah pointed a sword at a helpless woman, his words lost in the language
, though not the meaning.
Annette shuddered and pressed into Puppy.
Ahead lay a long field nestled between brown trees. Landing gear reluctantly groaned and they touched down with several big bounces before taxiing to a halt. The side door opened and the ‘bot tossed the bags outside, scrambling down the ladder to hoist four new identical bags back into the hull.
“Whatcha waiting for?” he snapped. “Get out, unless you’re coming back with me.”
Puppy peered past him at the tree line. “Here?”
“Same as always. They don’t like when I stay.”
“Who’s they?” Annette buttoned her coat.
The ‘bot shook its head pityingly and handed them a clipboard. “Hope the flight was in order. I’d appreciate getting a rating. I got a perfect record.”
Puppy scrawled a quick note about the comfort of the ride and hopped down, reaching up for Annette.
The ‘bot smiled, pleased by Puppy’s endorsement. “Train station’s a mile down the road that way, I hear. Good luck.”
The A39 pulled the ladder up and, inside of a minute, the Mohawk took off. Puppy felt a chill and it wasn’t from the wind.
They hurried towards the trees as a battered truck with a crescent moon and star on its panels roared toward the mailbags. Crouching behind a sad tree, they watched a thin Allah cheerfully toss the bags into the back of the truck, singing loudly before jumping back behind the wheel. He playfully drove around in a figure eight as if this were his first time behind a wheel. After a few more wild spins, the Allah drove off.
Walking on the makeshift path, they easily found the main road a quarter of a mile away and followed the sign, Landan, 5.3 km. A tiny yellow car which looked like it belonged in a child’s playroom puttered past. Honking arrogantly, a long black vehicle nearly drove it off the road. This was repeated several times, small cars driven by Westerners honked at and, if need be, bumped out of the way by ones driven by Allahs.
They squeezed each other’s hands that much tighter and joined the queue winding back out of the train station. Puppy steered Annette toward the passenger line marked by a cross with a red X, guarded by sneering Allahs in black robes.
As the train chugged into the station, Allahs rushed forward, taking all the cars except the last. None of their compartments were remotely crowded. A guard barked a guttural sound supported by waving rifles to hurry the non-Allahs into the rear car.
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