The Municipalists

by Seth Fried

  * * *

  I led Kirklin’s drone on a chase through unfamiliar streets, the surrounding buildings becoming lower and more spread out until I was able to confirm to my satisfaction that the night sky was once again empty. I slowed to a stroll, finally lowering my gaze long enough to notice that I was in a dodgy neighborhood on the wrong side of Jefferson Avenue. Here, the quaint, stand-alone houses that had once been common throughout the East Side were still standing, though they lacked their former suburban charm. Chain-link fences closed off small, grassless yards. Here and there aluminum siding had been torn away, revealing the faded patterns of building paper. Windows bore black steel security bars or were covered over with weather-swollen cuts of plywood.

  There was no sign of people, probably unsafe to be out at this hour. The streetlights were spaced inadequately and most of the light on the sidewalk came from the candied reds and blues of glowing signs belonging to nearby fast-food restaurants and chain drugstores, which seemed to be the only businesses surviving here.

  Seeing all those franchises brought to mind a heated memo Kirklin had sent out a while back. It had been in protest of Mayor Laury’s Commercial Incentive Program, which aimed at creating jobs in poverty-stricken neighborhoods. The idea was to provide tax breaks to businesses willing to locate in those neighborhoods. It was one of the city’s largest tax expenditures, offering billions in subsidies. Kirklin’s memo claimed the program would give corporations that much more incentive to muscle out locally owned businesses and that the program would have to spend $200,000 for every job it created. Kirklin wasn’t known for dealing in false facts, but once he decided he was against something his sentiments always seemed so reactionary and toxic that it was hard to take him seriously. The memo itself was also riddled with so many obscenities that it was barely appropriate for an online message board, let alone an interdepartmental communication at a federal agency.

  Most of us in Suitland thought Mayor Laury’s plan was laudable and Garrett ended up going over Kirklin’s head with an offer to help Laury augment the plan with federal money as long as the target neighborhoods synced up with established Empowerment Zones. When Kirklin saw the Commercial Incentive Program go through with federal aid attached, we all expected a tantrum beyond all tantrums. In hindsight we probably should have been more worried when he didn’t say a word.

  Kirklin’s ideas themselves were nothing new. His current plans for the city were only apocalyptic amplifications of the same progressive policies he had been articulating for years. The only thing that had come up in our brief interview that was at all unfamiliar was his emphatic use of the word “freezing,” which was still troubling me.

  A breeze picked up and gave the night a chill. I passed through another commercial lot and had to admit that all the fast-food restaurants so close together did look a bit disheartening. Not a single grocery store in sight.

  Eventually I found a shabby-looking hotel called Best Metropolis Lodge, at which point I remembered that my wallet was currently in an underground fortress occupied by a medium-sized army of terrorists. I wandered north another ten blocks to Collins and Shutte, where there was a stop for the F2 train. A camera flashed when I entered the station without a pass, but there was no attendant in the booth.

  It took twenty minutes to catch a Center City–bound train. Once I reached the inner loop, I transferred to an express, empty except for a few shift workers and a group of twenty-somethings laughing on their way to or from some bar. I didn’t hear any mention of the Mallory Club or the Hapsford Tunnel. The closest anyone came was a young man with curtained hair, wearing a tuxedo vest over a T-shirt, voicing his concern to two young women that the National Guard might enforce a curfew.

  I sat hunched forward at the end of the car, trying to remember everything Kirklin had said that night. I thought about the East Side and the word “freezing.” I thought about the look on OWEN’s face up on that ventilation tower and the lurking shadows of drones overhead. Each time I blinked, the passengers around me disappeared and were replaced with others. The dark interior of the Herbert Tunnel turned suddenly into a predawn skyline as we approached Center City from the east over the Clark Bridge. But even during these sudden drifts and discontinuities, it felt like I was awake, like I was thinking.

  11 Before long it was rush hour. From the smell of damp clothes, I knew even with my eyes shut and the train underground that it was raining. Someone brushed my knees and I looked up to see an old man with jowls and a faint gray beard standing in front of me in a raincoat. He muttered an apology and then retrieved a folded copy of the Standard from inside his coat. I was about to offer him my seat when I noticed the front page. There was a large picture of Terrence Kirklin and Sarah Laury sitting together cozily under the banner headline ALLEGED KIDNAPPER BEHIND ATTACKS. I recognized something about the photograph. It wasn’t just the clothes they were wearing or the tufted leather of the booth behind them. It was something in their eyes, Kirklin looking powerful and half-amused, Laury simultaneously haughty and repulsed. They had been looking at me when it was taken.

  The other passengers in the car were all holding up newspapers with similar stories or were scrolling through the coverage on tablets and smartphones. When the doors opened at Piedmont, I rushed out onto the platform and started digging through a large metal trash bin. I had to sift through a morning’s worth of half-empty coffee cups, used tissues, and fast-food wrappers before I finally found a discarded copy of the Standard.

  Most of the coverage dealt with the anonymous video sent to the authorities that had allowed them to connect Sarah Laury’s apparent abductor to the recent attacks on the city. There were direct quotes from Kirklin regarding his motivations for the museum attacks as well as his threat against the Mallory Club. According to the Standard, the authorities had decided not to release the full video. My best guess was that they were trying to avoid inciting a panic thanks to Kirklin’s promise of continued bombings throughout the city.

  I skimmed impatiently until the piece returned its focus to the transmission of the video itself. As OWEN had promised, it had been accompanied by the GPS coordinates corresponding to Kirklin’s facilities. But when authorities had arrived on the scene all they found was an empty restaurant and another sinkhole smoldering down the street.

  In its final paragraphs, the Standard’s coverage mentioned that the MPD and National Guard were continuing to cooperate in keeping the city safe. In response to the Hapsford Tunnel being shut down by a large fleet of drones, as well as Kirklin’s use of helicopters during the museum attacks, the Navy, in coordination with the Air National Guard, was deploying one of its new Halsey-class aircraft carriers to the city’s Lower Bay so jets could be scrambled as quickly as possible in the event of another aerial attack. The article also referenced the involvement of the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group and Counterterrorism Unit, both of which would be working with the city’s combined security forces to apprehend Kirklin and his agents. In other words, what was brewing in Metropolis was a civil-military clusterfuck beyond all proportions. A smaller item on page two of the Standard reported that a National Guard Humvee had inadvertently crashed into an MPD cruiser on Proctor Street while they had both been rushing to help evacuate the Mallory Club. As more local and federal government forces converged on the city, the potential for organizational dysfunction was limitless.

  OWEN’s intervention may have caught Kirklin off guard, but in a larger sense his actions only seemed to have accelerated Kirklin’s ambitions for the city. What I had seen in the firing ranges and training grounds of his underground facility suggested that Kirklin was not just preparing for an open conflict, but counting on one. Since his several hundred agents were all of a single purpose, they were in a unique position to capitalize on the inevitable disharmony of so many governmental forces trying to coordinate a unified response. Kirklin’s people were also more familiar with the layout and workings of Metropo
lis than an FBI tactical operations team shipped out from Quantico or a National Guard unit down from Latham. Kirklin could turn the city into an active war zone for months before he was inevitably captured, the protracted violence destabilizing the city for years to come and bringing it that much closer to his revolutionary fantasy.

  I tossed the paper back into the garbage can and made my way up to the street, where it was still drizzling. On the way I saw signs informing riders that the subways would be closing at 7:00 P.M. in keeping with the 8:00 P.M. citywide curfew. I jogged across Piedmont, which was empty except for a large construction sign with flashing text indicating that the streets would be closed for all but emergency vehicles once the curfew was in effect.

  A helicopter passed low overhead. It was a Bell 407 painted black with FBI in white letters across its belly. For a second, I’d thought it was one of Kirklin’s and I felt a surge of fear that only grew as I contemplated the task at hand.

  Somehow I had to intervene in Kirklin’s plans without helping him provoke an all-out confrontation with the MPD, FBI, the National Guard, the Air National Guard, or the hundred-thousand-ton engine of war with two nuclear reactors and just under a hundred fighter jets that was currently gliding toward Metropolis. And thanks to the mayor’s office, I had to get it all done sometime before 8:00 P.M.

  What’s more, I had no leads or worldly resources at my disposal other than the suit on my back. As I spiraled down into my anxiety, my chest tightened and it soon felt as if my whole body was being constricted. I started to unbutton my jacket, but stopped once I realized there was something familiar about it. I ran my fingertips along its right lapel and felt so relieved I almost started to laugh. Just like that, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

  * * *

  I have always loved the United States Municipal Survey. Not just the work. All of it. I love my small office on the fifth floor that gets so cold in winter I have to wear an overcoat while I fill out paperwork. I love the lukewarm Monte Cristos they serve in the cafeteria and the unmistakable smell of mildew down in some of the research labs. I love the quiet chatter of the other agents throughout the building, the sound of file folders being dropped on desks, and I love the suits Garrett makes us wear.

  When you’re working in the field, your suit is your home. On your overnight train to Boston, you fold the jacket into a pillow or drape it over your chest like a blanket. You fish around in its pockets for hotel keys in Pittsburgh and Salt Lake City. You scrub mustard stains out of its sleeves in airplane toilets. You know every inch of it. The weight of it on your shoulders. The easy two-finger slide when closing the pants’ hook-and-bar closure, followed by a quick searching pinch to secure the jigger button above the fly. You know the thick, reliable feel of the S110 wool. To be an agent for more than a few months is to know an agency-issue suit better than the look of your own face in the mirror.

  On our plane ride out to Metropolis, OWEN had pointed out inconsistencies in Kirklin’s budget that I now realized had probably paid for his extensive arsenal. For almost everything else, Kirklin had made do with the supplies at his disposal. The helicopters, the drones, even the railcars he had converted into Sarah Laury’s moving pied-à-terre. So back when OWEN told me about Kirklin doubling his expenditures on uniforms, he had been wrong to assume that it was just another embezzlement. This was what I realized once I had a moment to appreciate the distinct craftsmanship of the suit that had been given to me while I was Kirklin’s prisoner.

  As luck would have it, my years of scheduling alterations and repairs meant that I knew both the phone number for the agency’s supplier and that their lead tailor, Jacob Hicks, usually showed up for work around 5:00 A.M. His reputation for legendary customer service was further elevated in my mind when he immediately accepted a collect call from an unfamiliar number. I was in a small triangular park with two benches and a pay phone, surrounded by busy streets and office towers. The rain had cleared up, but traffic was loud and I had to shout into the receiver. As soon as Hicks recognized my voice, he asked me when I needed to come in, promising to bump anyone whose appointment might pose a conflict.

  “Not necessary. This is an administrative matter.”

  I heard his appointment book snap shut. A note of attentive alarm entered his voice.

  “Is there any problem with the suits, Henry?”

  “Not at all. You’re the best. I just need the address we gave you for a recent order. A few hundred of the usual cut, but black.”

  “You’re happy with them?”

  I caught a reflection of myself in a building across the street.

  “They look great.”

  “I was worried about the color. A little formal for every day.”

  I took a moment to add overdressing to Kirklin’s growing list of crimes.

  “They look fine. Honest. The address thing is a bit of an emergency.”

  “Certainly.”

  I heard the sound of him typing.

  “And which did you want? The address on Clairmont or the one on Wilmington?”

  I smiled.

  “Just to be safe, you better give me both.”

  He told me 427 Clairmont Street and 853 Wilmington Avenue. Both right in Metropolis. I committed them to memory and thanked Jacob for his time.

  So far so good.

  Unfortunately, the next phase of my plan required me to go on a bit of a crime spree. I felt nervous knowing that OWEN would have been proud. In all, I stole the following:

  From a RediMart on Elmer Street

  One 8-oz. bottle of hydrogen peroxide

  One 1-oz. bottle of liquid foundation

  From a bodega three blocks away on Malcolm Street

  One black gel-ink pen

  One spiral-bound 80-sheet memo pad

  One travel shaving kit

  From Metro Hardware across the street

  One black canvas duffel bag

  Six 32-oz. cans of lighter fluid

  One 250-count box of strike-anywhere matches

  From a Giant Health Foods on Temple Street

  One shrink-wrapped roast beef sandwich

  One pint of milk

  One banana

  I was able to hide the first five items in my pants pockets and under my jacket. But at Metro Hardware I just had to grab everything and run. Even with the large cardboard display tower of duct tape that I pulled down behind me as an obstruction, I was pursued on foot by the store’s clerk and presumed proprietor through the streets of Metropolis. He was an older man who was in excellent shape for his age and kept pace with me for ten blocks before I lost him by hiding behind a dumpster in an alley next to a laundromat. It had been at least twelve hours since my light tentacle dinner, so I then stopped by the Giant Health Foods and stole my small breakfast, all of which I consumed while sitting on the lip of the large fountain in the middle of King Park.

  From there I stopped by a few bookstores around MU until I was able to find A Beginner’s Guide to Esperanto by a Dr. Manlin Smithy, which I studied right there in the Foreign Language Study Aids section, copying down a few key phrases and pronunciation guides into my stolen memo pad. Dr. Smithy was good enough to offer sample dialogues, some of which I copied down in case their basic structure might come in handy:

  Q: Bonan matenon. Kiel vi fartas? (Good morning. How are you?)

  A: Bone, dankon. Kaj vi? (Fine, thanks. And you?)

  Q: Kie ĝi estas? (Where is it?)

  A: Ĝi estas tie. (It is there.)

  Q: Kio estas via profesio? (What do you do for a living?)

  A: Mi ĵus perdis mian laboron. (I recently lost my job.)

  Q: Ĉu mi povas helpi vin? (Can I help you?)

  A: Mi devas pisi. (I need to pee.)

  Once I had cobbled toge
ther a few key sentences, I headed back to the bookstore’s restroom and locked the door. After stripping down to my socks and underwear, I removed the bandage on my nose. I washed my wound and covered it over with the foundation, then put the peroxide in my hair and sat on the toilet, where I read over my Esperanto notes and practiced a few pronunciations. My scalp was beginning to burn, but I only had one shot at it and needed to maximize the effect. Occasionally someone would pound on the door and ask me what was taking so long, but I would just shout out one of the Esperanto phrases from my memo pad and whoever it was would walk away.

  After a while I rinsed out my hair and slicked it back. The peroxide had done what it could and my dark brown hair was now an orange-blond. I gave myself a quick shave and got dressed. I was pretty pleased with the final result. Whatever description may have been circulating among Kirklin’s men, it wouldn’t be of this slicked-back creep with no visible nose wound.

  When I opened the door a patron was standing just outside and looked as if he had been ready to knock. Right behind him the store’s young clerk had her back to us and was talking into a cell phone.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s been in there forever.”

  The patron told her I was out and she turned to me.

  “Hey,” she said. “What were you doing in there?”

  She was holding the phone away from her ear and glaring at me.

  “Mian laboron,” I said.

  She called out after me, but I was already out the door.

  * * *

  Four twenty-seven Clairmont Street was a one-story brick building sitting in the middle of a large empty lot in Center City right on the river. When I rang the buzzer I noticed a small placard on the door that read SOCIETY FOR ETHICAL MUNICIPALITIES, DEPT. OF THE QUARTERMASTER. I recalled the stamp I’d seen in Biggs’s book on Esperanto, EX LIBRIS SFEM, and hoped it might be a sign that I was in the right place. Since the authorities hadn’t found anything in the South Side, I figured Kirklin had probably mobilized his people at the first sign of trouble to move their operations to another location. The door’s intercom came to life for a moment, then went silent. A long pause followed before the door’s lock buzzed.