by Pasha Malla
The Galleria offered a reprieve from the crowds and heat, yet suggested the choked stillness of an aftermath. The storefronts had been smashed, goods rooted through and taken. Debbie hoped pillaging had at least remained practical — food, water, emergency supplies. Though as she was thinking this a young man trotted past shouldering a TV.
In Bargain Zoom a woman was dumping tins of corn-in-a-can into a shopping cart also shared by two children. Debbie called, Is it upstairs they’re holding people? The woman spun, eyes narrowed, and screamed, You can’t stop me, what’s to stop me, her kids kneeling wide-eyed amid a clutter of tins. It’s everyone for themself, she hollered, and wheeled down the aisle.
Each store bore evidence of looting, shelves upended, racks overturned, cash registers hung open like skulls with their tongues lolling out. For some reason a small fire smouldered on the reception desk of Horizon Systems, and the lottery booth had been relieved of all its tickets — to which lottery now? As Debbie reached the foodcourt a group of four middle-aged people went racing past, arms full of boxes of cider powder, followed by a friend wearing eight pairs of sunglasses and lugging a bulging knapsack.
Debbie walked the out-of-service escalator, climbed over spilled clothing racks up top. The first store was Baldini & Vogl’s Music. She peered through the lock-down grate into the gloom. At first all she could make out were the coffinlike shapes of pianos. But something stirred: the murky lumps lining the aisles were people. They sat on the floor in rows, dozens of them, faces indistinguishable. No one spoke. The only sound was the whisper of a ventilation duct.
I’ll get you out, she said. Don’t worry, she said, I’ll get you out.
No response. Not a word, not a flinch. Did they even see her? And then one of them stood and came lurching out of the dim. Shirtless, wearing a welding mask, he stood unspeaking on the other side of the grating . . . staring at her? In the visor Debbie saw only herself. A chill slithered through her body, as a ghost through a wall.
I’ll get you out, she said weakly, backing away, and ran down the escalator and into the northern quadrant, where water was flowing in from Topside Drive, deepening as she went. From Citysports emerged the four-legged beetle of a portaged canoe. The canoe was lowered, flipped with a splash onto the shallow water, its liberators stood over it wielding paddles. And Debbie was relieved to see familiar faces: the most recent additions to the Restribution Movement, the student couple whose names she’d yet to learn.
Guys!
They looked at her blankly. And, with recognition, impatience.
There’s people upstairs, Debbie said. We need to save them.
The only person to save is yourself, said the girl. No one else will.
Not the NFLM, not Raven, said the boy. They were trying to deport us!
This boat’s only big enough for us though, said the girl. Sorry.
I mean, we’re sorry, said the boy, steadying the canoe as his girlfriend climbed aboard.
It’s okay, said Debbie.
Water gushed into the Galleria from the north. From their seats, bow and stern, the students looked up at her. Give us a push? said the boy. Please, said the girl.
Debbie swivelled them north. Straight across the Narrows, she said. Good luck.
We’ll see you on the other side, said the girl.
For sure, said the boy.
They went paddling out the doors and out of sight. Water rippled up Debbie’s shins. She thought for a moment to just lie down, let it wash over and take her wherever it might run. But there were people to help. She procured boltcutters and a flashlight from Citysports, went back upstairs — and discovered Baldini & Vogl’s empty.
Empty, yet without any indication of forced entry or escape. The flashlight danced up and down the vacant aisles. The store’s austere duskiness suggested a widow’s parlour. Debbie squinted, maybe they’d made their getaway through an air vent. But the ducts were bolted closed from inside the store. Had she imagined the captives? Had the gloom played tricks on her eyes? But what of the shirtless guy who’d come to the grate? He’d been real. Debbie had seen her own reflection in his mask.
She sensed someone behind her, tensed, turned. Only the woman from Bargain Zoom, the one with the shopping cart, though she’d ditched it, and seemingly also her children. She pointed at the boltcutters. You using those?
They were eased from Debbie’s hands. The woman grinned wildly into B&V’s, at all that stock for the free-and-easy taking. I’m not a musician, she explained, as she set to shearing the lock, but this shet’s worth its weight in schnapps.
THE DECISION was sudden and collective: people started climbing down onto the tracks, hands were offered, children were passed below into strangers’ arms and reunited swiftly with their parents, the exodus downtown began. A contingent chained up to block the electrified rail. Just keep going, someone advised, stay calm, stay together, we’ll get there together.
The old man couldn’t get down. Blocking Pearl’s way, he wagged his cane into the empty space, crouched, extended a foot, retracted it again. Someone pushed past Pearl muttering, Enjoying the show? This person took the fellow under his armpits, two other people supported his legs, together they lowered him down.
The first person asked him, You okay to walk? and the old man laughed, twirled his cane, said, You go on, don’t worry about me, I got here fine, I’ll get out at my own speed. But they wouldn’t, instead yoked his arms over their shoulders. Am I a wounded soldier? the man laughed, embarrassed, yet allowed himself to be carried.
Ignoring a woman asking for help with her stroller — why’d she bring a stroller? — Pearl hopped down, she had to find her son. As she walked she leafed through the Grammar, though this was dicey, she had to keep checking her footing from one tie to the next, and the text was a mash of arcane language — An Object of Whose Possession He Is Jealous, A Victim of the Mistake, A Cause or Author of the Mistake . . .
Gip’s face hovered in her thoughts, a pleading look in his eyes, but she couldn’t picture the rest of him — bodiless, an apparition. She returned to the Table of Situations, and there it was, the book’s final chapter: Recovery of a Lost One. Pearl flipped to it greedily. But the section was blank, all the way to the end, page after page wiped clean.
Pearl stumbled, nearly fell, someone seized her arm, told her, I gotcha — probably best to save the book for later, to which Pearl replied feebly, I’m trying to find my son. Someone passing heard this and laughed: She’s trying to find her son! and someone else said, You’re the only one, lady! And the person who’d helped her, a woman in a Y’s cap, suggested, We’re all trying to find someone, hey?
Shaded by the cap’s brim the woman’s eyes were kind: she’d spoken not from scorn, but solidarity, and her grip was gentle. People streamed past, giving them room. If you’re all right, said the woman, we should get going. Looping arms she and Pearl, as teammates in a three-legged marathon, rejoined the march.
Y’s fan? Pearl asked. The woman said, You bet. I used to play for them, Pearl said shyly, and her arm was squeezed and she was told, I know, I know who you are . . . Pearl, right? This was dizzying — her own name, spoken aloud, amid all this! Like being kissed. Yes, she said, with the grace of a prayer: Pearl. That’s me, yes.
They spoke of their families — the woman was searching for her two girls, they’d stayed over at friends’ places in Bebrog. While she’d dispatched herself to find them her husband, an NFLM Helper, was rescuing stranded westenders in a catamaran. People Park’s where everyone’s going, she said, that’s where I’ll find my daughters. What conviction, Pearl thought, tightened her grip on the Grammar, leaned close, and said, What about my son? Don’t worry, the woman said, he’ll be there too. Everyone will.
Pearl’s spirits warmed: such faith! And all of these people, together, how could they be wrong? But after a few minutes of walking in silence the woman tensed. Up ahead, where t
he tracks curled inland, more walkers joined the procession at Bay Junction Station. So many, whispered the woman. Her grip loosened, her pace slowed. And here they were, hundreds of refugees, from both sides of the platform, pouring onto the tracks.
Keep talking, Pearl wanted to say, tell me it’s going to be all right. But the crowd had become oppressive, each person’s mouth pressed to the back of some stranger’s neck. No one could speak, the tracks were so full of people, all those people, still more people . . . With a sudden heave from behind, Pearl’s arm was knocked free. She reached for her friend, but the crowd enfolded her, the Y’s cap slipped away.
Stopping was impossible. People were wedged in so tightly Pearl couldn’t even turn to look back. Already she struggled to recall the woman’s face, her voice, the hope shining in it, the warmth of her body against Pearl’s — gone, all of it gone. Except the cap, the logo, that last image of it sucked into the mob. And now she was trapped alone inside this mechanical push toward People Park, the site of the crime, and the only place her son might be.
AS A GUNSLINGER with a pair of pistols, Noodles pointed two fingers, thumbs extended, at the sky. One of the newscopters was swooping down toward the Thunder Wheel.
What’s happening? said Wagstaffe, videoing. Are they going to take us out?
What do you mean, take us out, said Magurk, glancing around for a weapon.
Rescue us.
Oh. Are they?
Griggs said, Noodles?
Noodles nodded, nodded.
Wait, are you just nodding, or is that a yes?
He nodded some more. The newscopter hovered, gusts from its propellers flattened the men’s khaki jackets. Griggs’ crusty hairdo twitched as if electrified.
A rope ladder flipped out of the chopper’s cabin, unfurled, and hung.
We can’t get out, said Wagstaffe, because of these fuggin harnesses.
Noodles stopped nodding. He frowned.
Isn’t this what Helpers are for? said Magurk, snatched Griggs’ walkie-talkie, shouted into it, Hey, who’s there, who’s this?
It’s Walters. And Reed. Is that the Special Professor? Good lookin out.
Right, right, good lookin out, said Magurk. Silentium too, and all that.
Sorry, we still haven’t found Favours. We’re hoping someone scooped him up —
No, no, this isn’t about that. Though, hey, keep trying. Listen, we’re stuck on top of the T-Wheel. We need someone to let us out.
We?
The HG’s.
Oh. All of you?
The rope ladder dangled. Griggs strained for it, couldn’t reach.
Walters, said Magurk. Do you have a boat?
Yeah. Reed’s skiff. That’s how we’re looking for Favours —
Listen, forget Favours. Get over here. Bring a saw.
But what about —
This is an order, growled Magurk. Favours will be fine. You need to let us out.
Good lettin out, said Walters with a sad laugh.
Hurry up. People are starting to notice us.
THE TRAIN ROUNDED the island’s southwest corner and dry land appeared: high on a hilltop a cluster of huge houses sat untouched by the floodwaters, beneath it the neighbourhood was lost under a leaden swamp laced with emerald veins. The smell was sour, it flooded Kellogg’s nostrils and made his eyes weep.
I’m not actually crying, he assured Elsie-Anne.
The PA announced Knock Street Station.
Ignore the announcements, gasped Bean, between pulls on his inhaler. We’re not stopping anywhere, it’s just straight through to Whitehall, and the ferry —
And then we’ll go home, cracked someone behind Kellogg, and grim laughter flitted batlike through the car.
Well of course, said Bean. That’s the plan: then we’ll ferry you home.
The train whisked through Knock Street Station. Below a trio observed this from the roof of a house. Their faces were invisible inside pulled-up hoods, they seemed relaxed despite the water rising all around. They seemed, Kellogg thought, to be waiting for the train, watching it expectantly — almost hungrily — as it headed into the Zone.
Next stop, Upper Olde Towne, said the PA. Upper Olde Towne Station, next stop.
Nope! screamed Bean.
On they went, clacking and swaying. We’ll be there soon, Kellogg told Elsie-Anne.
Very soon, Dad, she said, and closed her eyes.
From the tracks came a thunderclap. The train lurched, skidded, all the riders were pitched forward and cried out in one voice. Kellogg turtled over Elsie-Anne to shelter her from the pile-on, bodies heaped upon his back, a foot connected with his face, his mouth filled with a tinny taste. And then they lurched to a violent, screeching stop.
Everything was still. Resting at a crooked slant, the train hissed. A few yards ahead and above was the half-built dome of UOT Station. Gingerly, people disentangled themselves from one another.
Is everyone okay? screamed Bean, and fell into a fit of coughing.
There was a streak of blood on the floor beside Kellogg’s head, was it his own, he couldn’t tell. Annie, he said, you okay?
We’re okay, Dad, she said. But —
A savage groan of metal, the struts buckled, the tracks fell away. As a child released into its bath, the train slid into the flooded street. Riders scrambled away from the bottom end as it went under, water swam up blackly around the windows, the car filled with screams.
Kellogg grabbed his daughter. Annie!
The train eased to rest: half-submerged, half in the open air.
The water’s coming in! — Help! — Everyone stay calm!
A mad scramble. The sounds were primal, shrieks and yelps and groans, panicked babbling. And the water gurgling in.
With Elsie-Anne in his arms, Kellogg climbed to the top of the car, someone grabbed him and pulled him up, he was being helped! He huddled among strangers on his knees, someone climbed over him, someone else was sitting on his back. Beneath his body he shielded his daughter.
Please! — Holy fug someone open the doors! — Don’t do that! You’ll flood the car! — Not at this end, we’re out of the water here! — Let me out before we sink!
Kellogg dabbed blood from his teeth. Annie, he whispered, it’s okay, we’re going to be okay. But his daughter didn’t respond, she’d gone limp in his arms.
The doors were pried open. In came a stench of sewage and rot. Everyone out, someone cried. In pairs people jumped. With grim purpose Kellogg crawled toward escape, Elsie-Anne held close, two by two people went tumbling from the train, vanished — where? And then he was next.
A tepid breeze. Hundreds of people splashed around below, the train drooped from the tracks like a vine from a slack wire. A voice yelled, Go! Kellogg was pushed. The slap of the water was sharp and quick. It knocked Elsie-Anne from his hands. Kellogg sank, reaching blindly for his daughter, he screamed a torrent of bubbles, the sour dark water filled his mouth, somewhere in this abyss was a city, drowned and pulling him down.
VIII
WALL: the cart struck it hard and the Mayor tumbled free, arms scrabbling to break her fall — and found herself landing soundly on two feet. She kicked her left leg, then the right, wiggled her toes, sidestepped, shuffled back, did a little jump. And then, restraining her happiness, she narrowed her eyes and declared, As well it should be, touch green.
An overhead light came on. She was in an elevator. The doors closed, the cables cranked into motion, and up it took her. There was no gauge of floors, but the little tin box accelerated, faster and faster, lifting her higher. The lights flicked off, then on again: the elevator, now glass, rose out of Municipal Works and climbed the Podesta Tower with views of the city all around, most of it submerged under black lacquer.
They’re all going under save me and you.
To the
west, yachts and various pleasurecraft had formed a leisurely armada, abandoning Kidd’s Harbour on strips of white wake. Upon the roof of Old Mustela Hospital patients and staff waved vainly at the media helicopters making passes above, but they just swooped away, onlookers only, not here to intervene. Farther north, at Upper Olde Towne Station something had gone wrong, the Yellowline had collapsed, a train was upended into the swamped street.
There was movement out there too, a cluster of multicoloured dots, people spilling from the train. Some climbed up to tracklevel, others dropped into the flood. And as she reached the viewing deck, with a shudder the Mayor thought of the bottomless alleyway at F Street and Tangent 10: underwater now, while chaos raged on the surface.
She walked out onto the deck, still hesitant, stockings torn. Though she felt hungry. Or not hungry, but hollow. She touched her midsection. Nothing there. She patted, passed a hand through: just space — no torso at all. She was two arms, two legs, and a head, her jacket drooped emptily.
The deck turned. Gloomily the Mayor surveyed the eastend. The incoming water had almost reached Orchard Parkway, chasing residents inland. Cars, their roofs loaded with suitcases and boxes, had been abandoned amid thousands of pedestrians, some pushed shopping carts or pulled wagons loaded with parcels and bags and boxes, others floated rafts buoyed with dumped-out bleach bottles, all of them converged on People Park.
IFC Stadium’s parking lot resembled a beach at high tide. The rides at Island Amusements seemed to struggle out of the water, gasping for air. The deck rotated west, toward the setting sun: the Necropolis evoked a kneecap jutting from a filling tub. Nothing looked like itself, everything looked like something else. Though maybe it was just easier to make sense of things that way.
Some of the Mews escapees doubled back to help with the UOT Station rescue. One lavish pleasurecraft stopped to collect folks stranded on the Dredge’s roof. But instead of bringing them to People Park, it shuttled them off to the mainland. Rats, thought the Mayor, abandoning a sinking ship.