The Revival

by Chris Weitz

  Jefferson doesn’t seem to be coming up with anything, either. We’ve said it all before, over other bodies of other friends. Jefferson’s brother, Wash. Half our tribe.

  So we just stand there for a while.

  I want to think about Brainbox, give him his due. But my mind keeps returning to Titch’s non-answer.

  It’d be nice if what Rab said was true. He says his job is to make contact with the Relevant Authorities—which is optimistic, both the idea that there are authorities and that, if there were, we could make contact with them—and begin the process of “reintegration.” The lost boys and girls of New York and the rest of the plague-ridden continent will be taken under the wing of the Reconstruction Committee.

  But I don’t buy it. Rab, I suspect, is here as my handler, The Powers That Be figuring that I still have feelings for him, which is so not true.

  And if this were a diplomatic mission, I’d say we’re a little heavy on firepower. It’s pretty obvious to me that the point of this little jaunt is to find the biscuit so that the fate of the world doesn’t end up in the hands of a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Maybe if it weren’t for that, they’d have preferred, as Chapel nicely put it, to wait until everybody was dead and then scrape up the goo.

  From the way Wakefield is giving clipped orders to the squaddies and the Gurkhas, I can tell he’s burning up because we were so close to getting ahold of the biscuit. And I can’t say that I’m 100 percent stoked that Chapel and Evan have it, either. A revolutionary and a sadist don’t add up to a great decision-making process, I figure.

  Wakefield looks over at us, calculating how long he can let this sad little excuse for a funeral go before he can get on the move. I figure this gesture at propriety may be the last chance Jefferson and I have to speak privately for a while.

  Me: “They came for the biscuit, Jefferson.”

  Jefferson: “I know.” He looks away from me, over the bone-white expanse of the meadow. He says, “What did you come for?”

  Me: “Do you have to ask?”

  Jefferson: “I thought… I didn’t want to assume anything.”

  Is this the same Jefferson? The boy who made a little home with me in a metal corner of the carrier? Who declared his undying love for me in the Reading Room, with the coffered paintings of heaven above us?

  No. He’s older. He’s defeated. I can tell that much from his face, and from what Peter said. Jefferson’s dream of Utopia is done. He’s a hunted man. So it bears saying.

  Me: “Jeff. I came for you.”

  I want that to be enough to change the look in his eyes; it isn’t. What’s happened?

  I ask him something I’ve neglected to until now.

  Me: “The tribe. What happened to the rest of us?”

  He takes a while to answer, a strange look on his face.

  Jefferson: “Washington Square is gone, Donna. I don’t know where most of the tribe went. Holly, Elena, and Ayesha were still alive when the Gathering started, at least.”

  Me: “Gathering?”

  Jefferson: “I tried to get all the tribes together. I—we—wanted to make a united front, before the grown-ups arrived.”

  This is Jefferson, all right. Always trying to fix the world.

  Jefferson: “We almost did it. Then Theo and Kath showed up and told everybody that there were places where the Sickness hadn’t hit.”

  Me: “Wait—what? You didn’t tell them?”

  Jefferson: “I was going to. We just needed a little time. We needed to get the new constitution first.”

  I’m trying to weigh that in my mind, but I still want to know about the others.

  Me: “And everybody else from the Square?”

  Jefferson: “A lot of the boys are dead. And the Uptowners have the girls, the ones they didn’t kill…”

  Jefferson looks off, and I realize what the strange expression on his face is. It’s shame. Our breath billows out like steam in the freezing air. Wakefield hovers nearby, clearly waiting for a moment to break up the funeral.

  Me: “What do you mean, the Uptowners have them?”

  Jefferson: “They took them away, before we even got back to the Square. They’d taken the place over. Brainbox made a bomb… We brought down one of the buildings on the north side. Killed some of the Uptowners. But the girls were gone.” He scrapes away at the snow with his foot, uncovering the dark, wet grime below. I can hear the twins screaming and laughing as they toss snowballs at each other, and Kath, amusingly enough, tells them no aiming for the head.

  Me: “Took them where?”

  Jefferson turns, looks around, as if he might see our missing girls somewhere by chance. Nothing but the squaddies gearing up.

  Jefferson: “I don’t know. The Bazaar, maybe. I don’t know.”

  Me: “This ‘Gathering’ of yours—were the Uptowners there?”

  Jefferson won’t meet my eyes. I’m dreading the answer. If he actually worked with them, compromised with them…

  Then he looks me in the eye.

  Jefferson: “Yes.”

  My heart sinks. It goes down about a thousand feet underwater, where you have to wear a special suit to keep from imploding.

  Me: “And you… you knew that they had our people?” No answer. Which means yes. “Jefferson… you didn’t try to get them back?”

  Jefferson: “I was going to.”

  Me: “When?”

  Jefferson: “Once the doc was signed. The constitution. That needed to come first. We needed to have the Uptowners be part of it, Donna. Or the whole thing wouldn’t work.”

  Me: “So you just—what—hung around with those… monsters, while our people were somewhere getting… with God knows what happening to them?”

  Jefferson: “I had to. I had to deal with them. For everyone’s sake.”

  I think of what the Uptowners stand for and what they do to girls. The pimps and prostitutes at the Bazaar. The things that happened to Kath that she won’t even talk about. I think of the Mole People, literally forced underground because they wouldn’t submit to them. And now I know what I really came here for.

  I take his hands. Our breath mingles in the cold air.

  Me: “Okay. Jefferson. I guess I did come for you. For your sake. You want to get out from under this? Redeem yourself? Then you listen to me. You can forget about the big picture for a little while.” I speak to him gently, but I don’t leave any room for doubt or questions. “Stop dreaming. Think about our friends. You and me, we are going to find them. If we do one thing, if we die doing it, we are going to get those girls back from Uptown. You understand?”

  Jefferson: “The nukes—”

  Me: “Will have to wait. First we save our family. Then we save the world.”

  Rab: “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

  It’s now that I realize Rab is standing nearby, peering down curiously into Brainbox’s grave, close enough to have heard everything. He doesn’t appear to have snuck up or anything. He’s just standing there with his usual air of Cool Guy confidence, like he can talk his way into any party or any conversation.

  Rab: “Why choose between nuclear blackmail and white slavery?” He’s bright and upbeat. “Our quarry is Chapel and his pet psychotic, right? Find them and we find your girls, don’t we?”

  Kath: “No. We don’t.” She’s sauntered over from the snowball fight.

  Great. Now everybody is joining in. The sacred mood broken, Titch circles around us and starts filling in Brainbox’s grave, clearly hurrying things along.

  Kath continues, “If your girls have been taken, they’ll be at the museum.”

  Me: “What museum?”

  Kath: “The one with the dinosaurs. That’s where the slave market is.”

  Jefferson: “The Museum of Natural History. On Central Park West. That’s, like, half a mile from here.”

  Kath: “They take them there to make them into Fun Girls.” Off my look, she explains, “Slaves. There’s these creepy West Side religious nuts who do i
t. They keep them there for a while, break them down. Then they sell them.”

  Me: “Then that’s where I’m going.”

  Wakefield comes over, seeing that the memorial service is busting up.

  Wakefield: “It’s time to get going. We should hit Grand Central in an hour.”

  Titch looks back at Wakefield but leaves me to explain.

  Me: “Change in plans, Colonel. We’ve got to rescue some of our friends first.”

  Wakefield: “Those aren’t my orders.”

  Me: “I don’t have any orders.”

  Wakefield: “You are under my protection.”

  Me: “I don’t need your protection.”

  Wakefield: “You are under my supervision.”

  Me: “We could use more hands if we’re going to fight the Uptowners.”

  Wakefield: “I don’t think you’re qualified to speak on military issues.”

  Which I guess technically is correct? But practically? We sort of do know what we’re talking about. Which is to say, we’ve slugged our way through two years of chaos here, against everything the place could throw at us—cannibals, fascists, even tweens.

  Me: “I’m sorry, but my decision stands. You can help, or wait here for me, or go do your thing.”

  Titch: “That wasn’t the plan, miss.”

  Me: “So? You’ve been here, what, half a day? You think any kind of plan lasts here? This place has its own rules. So I’m making my own plans from now on. I know that you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. That’s okay. You don’t have to watch my back anymore, Titch.” I turn to Kath and Peter and Jefferson. “You want to come along, that’s up to you.”

  I stand there hoping, as people decide. It’s kinda like in the Lord of the Rings? When one group goes to Mordor and the other goes to that big castle place. It’s like everybody has to decide: Will it be A plot or B plot? And which one is the A plot? Well, maybe I can be excused for thinking it’s me, even if it doesn’t involve saving the world from destruction. So who else is coming?

  Maybe, just maybe I care more about what Jefferson is going to do than anybody else. And maybe his decision is really about whether we’ll have a future together. And maybe, even though I know he is all about the Big Picture, I want him to be about the small picture, which is actually, in fact, the big picture as far as everyone we might actually help is concerned.

  Jefferson: “I’m with you.” He reaches out his hand, touches mine lightly.

  Maybe that matters a lot.

  Kath: “Me too, I guess. I think you can take it as a given that these little creeps are along for the ride.” She gestures at the Thrill Kill Twins, who practically wag their tails.

  The Gurkha takes a step toward me.

  Guja: “Wakefield said you stay with us.” His hand reaches for his knife, the locus of his authority. But then he finds Titch’s giant mitt resting on his shoulder.

  Titch: “I don’t think so, Guja. I reckon this is her call.”

  Guja looks to Wakefield, who suddenly seems thwarted. I’m not too sure about the command structure here. Maybe I thought Wakefield was the guy in charge because Titch is ginormous and working-class and Wakefield is human-size and fancy. But Titch is working for the Reconstruction Committee, at least for the spy guys who work with them. I guess Wakefield is just regular army.

  Wakefield: “There’s no question of delaying. And we need a local guide. That’s why they’re here in the first place.”

  Then, a surprise.

  Peter: “I’ll stay with you, Colonel.” Instead of meeting my eyes, he looks at his shoes, which frankly aren’t much to look at, bedraggled navy-issue sneakers covered in filth.

  Me: “Really?”

  He finally looks back up.

  Peter: “He’s right. They’re gonna need a guide. Besides, I have to. You understand?”

  At first, no. But then it makes sense after a second. He means he has to deal with Chapel.

  Me: “Petra—”

  Peter: “No advice, please. No tough love. I know. He was using me. I know there’s nothing to be said. But… Look. He fooled me. He fooled all of us. Right? Well, somebody has to hold him to account. If not, and that fool Evan becomes, like, some kind of supervillain, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

  Damn it, I’m crying again, in front of these old-world tough guys and the people I’m supposed to lead into battle. But the feels don’t care, my eyes don’t care. Come to think of it, I don’t care. Too much has happened for it to matter whether it’s good management style.

  And there’s good reason to cry. Maybe I won’t ever see Petra again. In this place, you say good-bye to somebody, it’s just as likely it’ll be forever.

  Wakefield is satisfied with the deal. Maybe he’s relieved to be rid of me. I hug Peter a long time. Then I turn to go. But there’s another surprise to come.

  Rab: “I’m coming with you.”

  Oh, no he didn’t.

  Me: “This isn’t your problem.” Besides which, I’m not sure I actually want him along. The mission is challenging enough without balancing a love triangle on my shoulders. Plus, I hate him. Right?

  Rab’s eyes narrow. Calculating.

  Rab: “We made an investment in you. I’m just keeping an eye on it.” But he says it in a way that makes it seem like he hardly means it. Like he’s speaking for the benefit of Titch and Wakefield, not for me. “Besides, we need to keep our communications open. I’ll stay in contact with Titch over our comms. We’ll rendezvous after we help your friends.”

  Rab looks over at Titch, who nods.

  Titch: “Keep an eye on her.” He says it like, Make sure she doesn’t do anything wrong, but I know—or I feel—that he means Protect her, since he can’t.

  Titch holds out his hand, big as a kid’s baseball glove. I go up on tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek.

  Me: “Keep your head down, you big lug.”

  Titch: “Stay safe, miss.”

  I turn to Peter and say, “I’ll be seeing all of you soon.” But I know that’s probably a lie.

  We stalk westward through tall grass browned by the frost. The snow swallows our footfalls. It’s remarkably peaceful here, nothing but a corpse or two observing our progress.

  That is, until we encounter a bunch of randoms hauling ass our way, scared out of their minds. I waylay one of them—a firearm helps in getting people to stop and chat—and ask what’s gotten into her.

  Random chick: “Oldies. From outside. Majorly strapped.”

  I figure she must mean the rest of the British squad.

  Me: “How many?”

  Random chick: “I don’t know. Twenty, thirty? You’ll see for yourself soon enough. They’re coming this way.”

  I turn to Rab.

  Me to Rab: “Was there another team? More squaddies?”

  Rab: “Not that I know of.” He takes in my look. “I’m telling you the truth. I have no idea who they are.”

  Ahead of us is a redbrick compound, still within the walls of the park. There’s a forecourt with upturned tables, and then inside, we find a restaurant called Tavern on the Green, its shiny wood and green carpets all beat to shit. We wait by the windows, eyes peeled, ears cored.

  Five minutes on, I hear the crunching of broken glass under rubber-soled boots, like some giant beast chewing a barrel of Grape-Nuts. I peek through what’s left of a broken window, to see a squad of soldiers walking down the tarmac path that leads past the restaurant toward the west end of Sheep Meadow. Over the jagged edges of the glass, I can see a flutter of camouflage. To my now-connoisseurial eye, it looks different from both the British regulation and the Uptowners’ store-bought dress-up stuff.

  Someone delivers a gruff, monosyllabic command, and the crunching stops. Now I can see, in the reflections of a bent piece of chrome-plated window frame, some soldiers close by in gray-green camouflage and sloped helmets, faces obscured by ski masks. They carry long, pipe-barreled rifles I don’t recognize.

  I look over a
t Rab. He shakes his head. No idea.

  Then the soldiers start talking, and it has the rolling, rhotic, diphthong-heavy sound of Russian. They’re muttering to one another in low tones, guarded, suspicious of something, but I hear the words Central Park (or rather, Tsintril Pyark) pop out of the flow. I see a soldier straighten the folds of a map. Then something stops their talk. A hushed order, and the soldiers scatter.

  I realize, to my horror, that at least one of them has made a beeline for the building and is right on the other side of the short outer wall of the restaurant’s façade, so there’s maybe eight inches of brick between us and some kind of Russian supersoldier. I can hear his breathing, slow and measured; I can see the nub of his rifle barrel poking over the ledge of the window frame. I look back at the others, crouching frozen on the floor by some nearby banquettes.

  They haven’t noticed us yet, but now we’re effectively pinned, and if the Russians decide to look inside, they’ll have us dead to rights. A copper penny of fear forms on my tongue.

  I try to stay silent and look for something to concentrate on to stop from trembling. Across the floor, an abandoned plastic doll stares at me with glassy blue eyes. She’s naked and sexless, arms reaching upward like she’s begging or celebrating.

  Then I spot Jefferson, reaching out for the doll. He swivels her arms back to a less awkward pose and sets her on a soft cushion away from the broken glass. He’s always had a weird thing about stuffed animals and such being left in uncomfortable positions, and, yeah, I can see how holding her arms up like that must’ve been really tiring for her nonexistent plastic back muscles. He looks up and sees me seeing him and blushes.

  There’s a sound from the path, and I see gray-green movements reflected in the pupils of Jefferson’s eyes. Then I look up to find a young soldier staring down at me, his gun poised lightly in his hands. He has a look of consternation on his face.

  I put my hands up, and the others do, too. There doesn’t seem to be much else for it. Then we hear a CRACK in the distance, and our Russian soldier falls forward into the restaurant, bleeding from the neck. He’s practically on top of me.