by Drew Magary
By the time the police arrived, the mob of Conquistadors had already burned down the dining area, along with everything else inside Naru Authentic, and ported out before anyone could lay a hand on them.
JOHN RADCLIFFE HOSPITAL
The line for outpatient treatment at Radcliffe wrapped around the entire building and grew at a frightening pace: patients from America and continental Europe and even Africa all porting in and vying to get decent treatment. A cluster of armed guards scouted the line, demanding papers from people bleeding out from gunshot wounds, writhing in pain from broken bones, even giving birth right on the sidewalk.
Anna ported onto a patty of fresh dogshit. It found its way between her sole and her insole, and now she could feel it warming her toes.
They knelt by Mr. Naru, who fell out of his wormhole but was savvy enough to brace himself before landing on the sidewalk outside. He was bleeding profusely as Asmi tore away a part of his shirt to make a loose tourniquet to wrap around the meaty part of his wounded shoulder.
“I’ll see how long the line goes,” Anna told Asmi. She walked gingerly along the row of ailing men, women, and children, careful not to smear the poop inside her shoe further, though she knew that effort would be in vain. The smell battered her with every step as she tried to gauge the wait time.
“How long have you been here?” she asked one woman.
“Lo siento, no hablo ingles.”
“Cuanto es la espera?”
“No se.”
She asked another patient, who only spoke Hindi. Another only spoke Arabic. A nurse emerged from the admitting area and surveyed the line. She was besieged instantly by a frenzied crowd, begging for their loved ones to be let in.
“HELLO!” she cried out to them. “I have told you this already but we are at full capacity! If you have a life-threatening situation, please consider other alternatives!”
“We don’t have any!” one patient shouted.
“We are doing our very best to treat as many people as we can, but I cannot guarantee your loved ones will get the care they need in time.”
A handful of disgruntled patients and their families ported out, allowing the line to condense a hair. Everyone else stayed, either because they kept their faith in the shrinking line or because they couldn’t port anyway. Anna saw at least three unconscious bodies on the sidewalk. Or, at least, she hoped they were only unconscious.
She ran back to Asmi, who was sitting cross-legged on the concrete and holding her dad upright in her lap. Mr. Naru was awake and alert, but still grimacing from the stab wound.
“We can’t stay here,” she told Asmi. “Maybe we try Denmark?”
“We don’t have health privileges in Denmark,” she told her.
“Back in Pakistan?”
“You’re not a Pakistani citizen, Anna. You have to check in when you port there.”
“I can do that while you go right to a hospital.”
“Any hospital in the free zones there will be overrun anyway,” Asmi said.
“America?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“That’s it, then,” said Anna. “We gotta get a port doctor.”
“We don’t have the money for that!”
Anna pulled out the envelope of cash Mr. Naru had given her back in the restaurant. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“No no. Wouldn’t feel proper using that.”
“Are we really gonna have this talk right now? I’m not trying to stick you with leftover birthday cake. He’s gonna die.”
“I’m not gonna die,” Mr. Naru said.
“Well, he’s not gonna feel good if we don’t get him treated soon,” Anna said. “You’ve got the energy to port, what, one more time?”
Mr. Naru nodded. Anna looked at Asmi and could tell she was relenting.
“Let’s get your dad home.”
ST. MICHAEL’S
Mr. Naru ported into his apartment and slumped to the ground, soiling the rug with his own blood. His family screamed out in horror and swarmed him. They propped him up, got him water, and demanded, in Urdu, to know what happened. But he was drifting in and out of consciousness due to blood loss. When Anna and Asmi ported in, the rest of the family stared back at them, expecting answers. Asmi said a single word to them that they all immediately understood: “Conquistadors.”
Asmi searched for an available port doctor as her little sister brought Mr. Naru a succession of items to make him feel better: water, tea, chapati, even a stuffed bear.
“Quit giving him all that!” Asmi yelled at her. “What’s a bear good for besides mopping up blood?”
“I’m trying to help!”
“You can help him by pissing off!”
Every five-star doctor listed on MedPort app had a wait. Same for the nurse practitioners. Asmi had to scroll down into the three- and two-star listings to find anyone who was available right away. When she picked one, a short man with black hair ported in with his hand already outstretched.
“The money?” asked Dr. Fisher.
Asmi handed him the envelope. The doctor knelt down and looked over Mr. Naru’s shoulder.
“Looks clean. I should be able to stitch him up here. He might need an x-ray later on. That isn’t included, by the way.”
“I bet it isn’t,” said Asmi.
“I have to get a few extra supplies and I’ll be right back.” He disappeared for twenty minutes. When he reappeared with an extra kit of medical supplies, Asmi glared at him.
“If you take that long again, mate, there’ll be two stab wounds to treat here.”
“Calm down,” said Dr. Fisher. “You actually did a great job stanching the blood. He’s already stable. You keep taking care of him like this and he should be fine in no time.” That was enough hope and flattery to keep Asmi from cutting him. Dr. Fisher numbed up Mr. Naru and threaded eight dissolvable stitches through his shoulder.
The whole house smelled like dogshit now. Anna walked outside and tossed her soiled mary jane into a rubbish bin. Now she had just one sad shoe. Her mom ported in by the door.
“There you are! Where on earth did you go? Literally where?”
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
Sandy shook Anna. “You can’t do that to me!”
“Mom, stop.”
“You don’t know what it’s like for me when you disappear, okay? You don’t know the thoughts that come to my mind immediately when I don’t know where you are, Anna. I know you’re young and you want to be independent, but every second you’re gone, it crushes me.”
“I said I’m sorry, all right?”
“No, you’re not. Make me your friend on that fucking phone.” Sandy never swore. She saved up her cursing for times when it could mean something. “And don’t unfriend me. I wanna know where you are at all times.”
Anna sighed and accepted her mom’s friend request.
“Why are you only wearing one shoe?” Sandy asked.
“The other one broke.”
“Where did you go with Asmi?”
“We went to London but then something bad happened.”
“What?”
Anna led her mom into the Narus’ apartment. Dr. Fisher was already gone. The family had moved Asmi’s dad to his bedroom, but the blood-stained outline of his upper body remained permanently dyed into the rug. Asmi leaned on the kitchen counter and took out a cigarette. No one in her family objected to her smoking right there.
“Is he all right?” Anna asked her.
“Yeah,” Asmi said. “I told him weeks ago to get a shotgun for that new storefront and he wouldn’t do it because he didn’t want the police catching him with one. Now look what happened. Friend of mine says they burned the place down.”
“Oh god.”
“They’re bastards. Utter fucking bastards. Why can’t they leave people alone, Anna? I mean, I get hate. Believe me. I get hating someone like Vick, you know? That’s proper hate. But this isn’t. I’ve lived here my whole life and had to
deal with it. Not once has anyone ever had the courtesy to tell me why they hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Anna said.
“Oh, darling. I know that. Come here.” She wrapped Anna in a hug and then beckoned Sandy into joining them. “You’re both lovely.”
“We’re so sorry,” Sandy said.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. There are people who want to share the world with others, and people who don’t want to share anything. I try to ignore it but nights like this are when I know which side is winning.”
“I won’t let them win,” said Anna.
“There’s nothing to be done,” said Asmi. “You can only be you.”
“Yeah well, I’m gonna be more than me. I’m gonna crush them all.”
“Well if you do,” said Asmi, “Start with that fucking doctor.”
OXFORD/COSTA RICA/RICHMOND
They stayed in Oxford another week, gorging on Grandma Naru’s home cooking until Anna felt like a giant rice ball rolling in and out of bed. In the mornings, she stood sentry in the family room as Asmi and her father filed police reports and insurance claims that, combined, held about as much promise as a lottery scratch ticket. On Christmas Eve, they wolfed down endless courses of nihari, korma, chapshurro, and chapli kebab at the Naru apartment. After gorging, Anna played Christmas carols on the piano, and then lay down on the family room floor. She looked at the soft glow of the family Christmas tree and allowed herself, against all better judgment, to sneak in a dream about having Lara wrapped in her arms. She tried to sub other girls into the dream, but her mind refused to budge. It wanted a treat. It concocted an elaborate back story in which Lara magically redeemed herself so that Anna could love her without reservation.
“If we can get it to Dr. Ciaran Stokes, we can beat them.” Maybe that text is just another trap. But what if it’s not? A girl can dream, can’t she? Is that so wrong?
On Christmas Day, the Huffs and Narus ported to the Mongolian Wok for dinner and then five miles over to the Hollywood Bowling Alley in Oxford, hewing to a Naru family tradition. Even with a bum left shoulder, Mr. Naru rolled a 200. No one else was at the alley that day, but that didn’t stop Anna from constantly looking around to make sure there weren’t any pasty boys in Conquistador logo shirts at the doors, frothing at the mouth. When they ported back to St. Michael’s, Sandy took Anna into their little bedroom.
“Look by the mattress,” her mom said with a twinkle. Anna checked and found a fresh pair of duck boots and a pair of red Pumas with white soles hiding on the floor. “Do you like the sneakers?”
“They’re very, uh, red.”
“You needed something sturdier than those mary janes.”
“I did.”
“Do you want me to return them?” Anna could tell that Sandy was hoping for a “no.” The holiday had revitalized Mrs. Huff but she still didn’t look well. Her face was sunken. Whenever she brightened up, Anna knew it was a temporary state: a bittersweet respite in the middle of an otherwise trying day, week, month, year, decade.
“I’ll keep ‘em,” said Anna.
“But do you like them?”
“I’ll keep ‘em.”
On the 26th, Sandy went back to her dishwashing job, hairnet and all. She gave Anna her blessing to port around that day with Asmi, so the two girls sent themselves over to the Papagayo Peninsula in Costa Rica, staring at the lackadaisical komodo dragons lining the beach paths and listening to the throaty calls of howler monkeys emanating out of the jungle. The monkey’s hollow, guttural cry sounded as if it had swallowed another animal and that animal was screaming to get out. Their racket snuffed out all the port claps and lent the beach an otherworldly, almost industrial ambiance, like the whole peninsula was enclosed inside a jet hangar.
In the center of Culebra Bay, the two girls spotted a 300’ yacht with a helicopter landing pad that had been repurposed into a spikeball court. No one was aboard. They sat back and lounged amid the turquoise bay and sculpted rock outcroppings. The sun coddled them in its supple heat. They snagged a couple of tamales from the constant stream of vendors bouncing in and out. Anna unwrapped a corn husk and rushed the tamale into her mouth to keep from burning her fingers.
“How’s your mate?” Asmi asked.
“Burton? Burton went on a garden club tour.”
“A garden club tour?”
“Everything about Burton makes sense if you just pretend he’s an 85-year-old woman.”
“I didn’t mean Burton. I meant your other friend.”
“Oh. Bamert.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s see.”
Anna couldn’t sign into Network Z on her actual phone, so she opened up WorldGram and scrolled through pictures of Bamert to zero in on his location. He was wearing a Santa hat throughout his feed, giving the camera a thumbs up and a deranged grin from Bangkok, Rio, Vancouver, and other destinations chosen seemingly by hitting SHUFFLE. In one photo, taken from the north summit of Twin Peaks overlooking San Francisco, he held up a fifth of Jack and gave the camera another manufactured smile. Anna knew that smile. It was the same look Bamert gave her after he came out of The Latin Room that night. She looked at the timestamp on the post. It was 9:07am.
Everywhere gets old if you’re alone.
“D’you wanna visit him?” Asmi asked.
“I probably should, but I don’t know if that would be something he wanted.”
“Oh please. He adores you. You’re his best friend.”
You have a best friend?
“Let’s go see the boy,” Asmi insisted. “Text him right now.”
Ten minutes later, she and Asmi stood at the foot of a gated, winding driveway outside Richmond, Virginia. The surrounding lands were quieter than death. When commutes became blessedly extinct and the well-to-do porters could build houses anywhere they liked, all of the McMansions went underwater. Some of the suburbanites stayed, but plenty of them walked away from their mortgages and left soured dream homes orphaned across thousands of cul-de-sacs. They were off to live as Newmads, or to settle down in any one of the new, far-flung exurbs to pop up around a world that had been re-fashioned into a mad sprawl.
From a distance, many of the houses in this neighborhood still looked new, with their toothy HardiePlank shingles and ugly craftsman columns weathering the elements season after season. It was only once you stepped inside that you noticed the decay. Families emigrating from outside the country took advantage and squatted in the bedrooms, taking a calculated risk on free luxury accommodations in the hope that PINE wouldn’t come snooping around for them.
Asmi nervously fiddled with her British passport, rubbing it between her fingers like a talisman. She had a temporary student visa to port, but being out in the American wild terrified her all the same. The Bamert estate had a portwall but the greater development did not. This was a genteel part of the free zones, but a part of them all the same.
“I don’t like it here,” Asmi told Anna.
“Not many people do, it looks like.”
“Let’s go in before some tank rolls by.”
They rang the buzzer and the gate swung open without any response from the intercom. Lining the driveway were parallel rows of meticulously sculpted holly hedges. The residential road outside was thoroughly choked with weeds, but the Bamert estate remained conspicuously free of any encroaching overgrowth. The Bamerts must have had a landscaper sit sentry all day long, even in wintertime, trimming bushes and vaporizing any fallen leaf that had clung to life past autumn.
Anna and Asmi knocked on the mahogany double doors. Bamert greeted them in a red bathrobe festooned with small reindeer, holding a Solo cup filled with God knows what. Too drunk and filthy for them to hug.
“Ho ho ho,” he slurred. He stumbled into the foyer without saying anything more.
Anna and Asmi followed Bamert into a marble hallway larger than any room they’d ever been in. In the center of the foyer was a pedestal featuring a bronze bust of Ho
over Bamert, Paul’s great-grandfather. Lining the surrounding walls were solemn oil portraits of other Bamert family luminaries. It reminded Anna of Assembly Hall at Druskin, only colder. So cold. She grabbed her elbows and shivered as she and her roommate trailed Bamert through his family’s frozen domain.
They followed him into a kitchen that was outfitted with restaurant-grade appliances and lined in Andromeda granite, the countertops a celestial swirl of grays and purples. From the ceiling hung the same country ham that Bamert had been aging in his Kirkland single. He vomited into the sink. Anna rushed over.
“It’s morning here!” she scolded him.
“Allow me to port to Istanbul and remedy that.”
“You’re not in a suit!”
“I’m a robe guy now, my dear. It suits me.”
“Is there anyone else in this house?” she asked.
“AHAHAHAHHA no,” said Bamert. “I wouldn’t dare subject you to a second round of Edgar. He’s in Telluride. Come with me.”
“Why is it so cold in here?” asked Asmi.
“It won’t be in just a moment.”
He led them through another long hallway, past an open bedroom strewn with old toys and picture books that had been left there for years. Anna noticed a small set of wooden train cars in the shape of P-A-U-L lined up on a dresser. Through another set of museum-like hallways they reached a fabulous parlor, with a globe the size of a yoga ball spinning around on a maple stand. Bamert picked up a fire poker and jabbed at the ashen logs in the parlor’s elephantine fireplace. Over the flames, there was a cast iron cauldron bubbling and spitting hot chili onto the coals below, making them hiss. He grabbed a pile of paper bowls and held them out for the girls.
“Chili?”
“No thanks,” they both said.
“Suit yourself.” He ladled himself a bowl and sat down on the leather banquette, letting stray bits of meat and onions languish in his tangled beard. “So, how was everyone’s Christmas?”
“Bamert,” Anna asked, “are you alone?”