The Electric Kingdom

by David Arnold

  “You’ve seen other people?” asked Lennon.

  Nico said, “Before you guys,” and her tone made it clear: whoever she’d seen, she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Carl Meier sounded super old,” said Kit. “The voice from Monty’s radio. He’s still alive.”

  “Was the recording date-stamped?” asked Nico. “That could have been years ago.”

  Kit thought about this for a second; he couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think it was. “You said the Flu could be reactivated by another sickness?”

  “That was one of Dad’s theories.”

  In his mind, Kit could still see the cover of Humphries and Howard’s A Beginner’s Guide to Infectious Diseases. “Do you know how easy it is to get pneumonia out here? Tuberculosis, mononucleosis, whooping cough, Hodgkin’s lymphoma, scurvy—”

  “Scurvy?”

  “Micronutrient deficiencies are a serious matter,” said Kit. “Which, given how we eat, seems not impossible.”

  Beside him, Harry whined.

  This was quickly becoming Kit’s superpower: bringing every conversation within a ten-mile radius to a grinding halt.

  Lennon threw a stick, and they watched Harry run after it.

  “Dad could have been wrong,” said Nico. “He even admitted it. It may not be reactivating at all. Might just as easily have found its way into our food and water, so now people are contracting it years later for the first time.”

  Lennon, who’d been quiet for the last few minutes, laughed under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just—for some reason, I started thinking . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Zadie kept this old calendar on the wall. I used to flip through it. Everything from friends’ birthdays to dinner parties to oil change reminders. It was all so . . . mathematical. Mapped out, all the things she was going to do. And here, we’re headed to two different cities, which, for all we know, are nothing more than holes in the ground. Swarms around every corner, eating meals out of bags, maybe we’re carrying the virus that wiped out humanity, maybe not.” He shook his head, the laughter long dead in his throat. “A calendar. Can you imagine?”

  It was silent for a long time after that.

  At least I’m not the only one who shuts down a conversation, thought Kit, whose hand had grown considerably sweaty in Nico’s grip, but whose heart was too full to let go.

  the art of language

  The book was hard to forget for two reasons: first, the front had a photograph of a lion’s head bursting through the cover, as if attempting to escape the pages inside; and second, it was called Language Arts, which, at the time, Kit found highly intriguing.

  The book was totally boring, of course.

  Kit could only assume that the brains inside the heads of those kids who’d lived in the olden days had been dulled by the luxuries of their soft lives, a time when growing old was expected, and one’s heart didn’t jump out of one’s chest at the sight of small flying bugs.

  Language Arts was a sham.

  (And nary a lion to be found, though Kit liked to think this was because it had succeeded in its pursuit of emancipation. He wished that lion all the best.)

  The book did, however, prod Kit into a Time of Intense Thought. He’d sit in that orange beanbag in the corner of the Taft library, let his mind go where it needed going. And he decided then that while Language Arts was a sham, the language of arts was not.

  His paintings talked to him.

  But only if he was listening.

  Once, in a very different (far more interesting) book, he’d read about the importance of “finding your voice” as an artist.

  “Voice” was, apparently, a highly desirable, exceedingly elusive commodity. If this book was to be believed, artists had climbed mountains, crossed oceans, plummeted mines, drank very old liquids made of corn and grapes until they’d forgotten not only their names and problems, but also how to breathe (in, out, repeat), all in hopes of finding their “voice.”

  But Kit thought maybe it was easier than all that. His paintings only spoke when he was listening, so maybe you just had to be super quiet. Maybe to find it, you just had to hear it.

  Maybe that’s why it was called voice.

  NICO

  Electrics

  Late in the afternoon, they came to a place where a small arm of land split the water in two: while the river continued on one side, an inlet had formed on the other. They stuck to the mainland of the west bank, circling the inlet south through thick brush and high grass, before their way opened into a long, wide field. On their right, the high wooded mountains. On their left, a symmetrical row of tree-poles, stripped of bark and branches, connected by long wires running between them. Nico had seen these poles before, by the station, and a few places between the cabin and here. But these seemed newer, in better shape.

  “Power lines,” said Lennon. “These are pretty intact.”

  “We had some in Town,” said Kit. “I’ve never seen them with cables like that.”

  Lennon said there was a time when they’d all had cables, when these wires had delivered electricity to every house, every building, everywhere. Light. Heat. Televisions and computers and ovens and refrigerators. Staring up at the power lines, Nico thought of the words of the nameless, faceless witch: A darkness has chased away the sky. It has erased the Kingdom of Manchester, and all great Kingdoms of the world. In reality, the kingdoms of the old world had been great because they’d been electric. It felt strange, then—or not strange, but significant—to now walk near, around, underneath the instruments that had granted this greatness.

  At the southern tip of the inlet, they were reunited with the river and the train tracks, and the new addition of power lines added a sense of communal direction, as if their path had been laid out before them by water, power, transport. And in a way, it had. People had built the tracks, power had surged south, and those untold beings who called the river home had blazed this trail long before Nico and Kit and Lennon got here.

  And Nico found herself thinking, Sometimes it’s nice to feel small, to know you are far from the first.

  Beside her, Lennon tripped over a root. “Why won’t you walk on the tracks?” she asked, only now noticing that he actively avoided them.

  “The slats don’t line up with my stride,” he said, and Nico wondered if it was possible for a string of benign words to sound charged by nothing more than the mouth from which they came.

  “Crossties,” she said.

  “Hmm?”

  She looked at him, and it seemed he was smiling now, or maybe it was just her smile had extended its reach. Regardless, she felt giddy for no apparent reason, and suddenly found herself wanting to tackle him. Like, headfirst. Land right on top of him, just—bam. Like that. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes, which, had she ever done that before? Surely this was not a new move, though now that she thought of it, normally, her hair fell where it fell, and that was the fucking end of things, what in the world?

  “They’re called crossties,” she said.

  “Or sleepers!” yelled Kit, some twenty paces ahead. “If you’re British!”

  Harry barked.

  “Crossties,” said Lennon. “Okay then.”

  Overhead, the power lines led the way south, and Nico couldn’t help wondering if maybe some of their electricity had hung around.

  Hopes

  Conversation ebbed and flowed with the water, and when the power lines veered east, away from the river, they each waved a fond farewell.

  “Coke,” said Lennon. “From a can.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s probably gross by now, but still. Wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

  “You can have your Coke. Give me a real library. Unspoiled. Undamaged. A wordy heaven.”
<
br />   “Nerdy heaven, more like.”

  “Compliment registered and accepted.”

  They’d been playing this game for a while now. Things We’d Like to Find in Manchester. The list had grown considerably since they’d started an hour ago.

  Kit said, “Paint. And paper, obviously.”

  “Wouldn’t paint be spoiled by now?” asked Lennon.

  “Oil-based paint is made of natural pigments,” Kit said. “They only go bad if the solvent evaporates. If the containers are well sealed, they can last just about forever. Or decades, at least. Same basic thing.”

  “How do you know so much?” asked Nico.

  “I read a lot.”

  “I read a lot. I don’t remember things the way you do.”

  “My Dakota used to say I had”—Kit held up his non-walking-stick hand to gesture an air quote—“‘unusually extended eidetic memory.’”

  “Eidetic memory,” said Lennon. “Like photographic memory?”

  “Sort of,” said Kit. “Actually, no, not really. Photographic memory would be like, you see a painting hanging on that tree right there, and then three days from now, you remember every tiny thing about it. Eidetic memory is like, you see a painting hanging on that tree, and three minutes later, you can still see it. Like—physically. But it’s more of a short-term thing.”

  “Only yours is”—Nico air-quoted as well—“‘unusually extended’?”

  Kit shrugged. “I can see things long after they’re gone.”

  As the sun descended, the river seemed to curl in on itself, and while the woods were still thick and present, they found themselves walking over more paved areas, and behind larger beige buildings, not dwellings, but old stores and businesses.

  “Could be Concord,” said Lennon, tapping a spot on the map where the river twisted to the east. “See?” He pointed to a bridge in the distance, then found a correlating bridge on the map.

  “There’s a boat.” Kit pointed to a riverside house with a dock, and a little boat tied up.

  No one said anything; the question didn’t need asking.

  “I mean—it would probably be quicker,” said Nico. “But I have no experience with boats.”

  “Me either,” said Lennon.

  They stood in silence for what felt like a very long time; Nico had no idea what the others were thinking, but all she could imagine were three kids and a dog capsizing in the middle of the river.

  “Sun’s almost down,” said Lennon, folding up the map. “We’re not going much farther tonight anyway.”

  Nico turned from the river to face the backs of the buildings. “What are the chances one of these shops used to sell mattresses?”

  They left the riverbank, walked around to the front side of the building. It was an L-shaped strip of old businesses and stores, a giant parking lot in the middle with more run-down cars and trucks and piles of bones than any of them had ever seen. Most of the stores were locked, a few had such a strong stench coming from within that they didn’t need locking. If it weren’t so cold, if they hadn’t already gotten their hopes up for a night indoors, they would have turned around before they saw it: a store with a sign that read BAM! BOOKS, TOYS, TECH, MORE.

  “Okay,” said Nico.

  They stood in the parking lot, wide-eyed, staring up at the sign.

  Kit swallowed audibly. “Yeah.”

  A brief pause; Nico continued. “So, here’s the thing.”

  “Right,” said Lennon.

  “I’m not going to get my hopes up, is what I’m saying.”

  “Yes,” said Kit.

  “I’m going to walk up there assuming the door is locked.”

  “That’s good,” said Lennon.

  “Or that the books and toys and tech and more have been completely ransacked.”

  “Most likely,” said Kit.

  “Or that it smells like the rotting intestinal tract of a large river rat.”

  Harry barked.

  “Okay,” she said. “Well.”

  Out of words, heart well past her throat, now making its way into her own intestinal tract, Nico stepped toward this mythical store called BAM!

  At the front door, she turned, gave a thumbs-up, and mouthed, No smell.

  Still in the parking lot, Kit looked up at Lennon beside him. “Is she whispering?”

  Lennon shrugged.

  There was no protocol for hope of this magnitude.

  Nico turned back to the door, reached out a hand, felt the cold metal against her fingers—and pulled.

  KIT

  oh, magical Books-A-Million!

  Not since before his Dakota got sick had Kit felt such pure, reckless joy.

  Rows and rows of it.

  As it happened, BAM! was an acronym for “Books-A-Million,” and while he never got around to counting, it sure felt like the store delivered on its promise.

  Yes, it had been somewhat rifled through. But barely, as if the looters’ hearts weren’t really in it.

  Unlike most shops, these windows were not broken, the space was warm enough. Outside, the moon was too low to offer much light, so they divvied up lighters, quickly checked for people-bits (none) and straggling strangers (none). Given these enviable qualities, and not having a lot of experience sleeping in one of the old buildings, they decided to barricade the doors.

  They shifted four bookshelves of BARGAIN BUYS in place, and then turned to face this wild, untamed land called BAM!

  Harry trotted up and down each aisle, nose to the ground.

  In a matter of minutes, Nico had basically built herself into a book-fort in the corner, the walls comprising a sensible combination of hardback and paperback, classics and young adult novels.

  As opposed to Nico’s rabid hunger to consume as many books in as short amount of time as possible, Lennon approached the sci-fi section with cold calculation. He pulled a few books from the shelves, opened them with a timid, almost religious respect.

  Unsure what was appropriate or expected given this radical turn of events, Kit had decided to wait and watch his friends first before jumping in. Apparently, the spectrum of appropriate and expected ranged from “starved wolf” to “zealous monk.”

  Okay then.

  He knew what he was here for. And even though he’d never been in this store, per se, his feet seemed to know the way.

  In the art section, he grabbed five boxes of colored pencils—three, he put in his bag; two for tonight; plenty more were here, if needed—and then found a sharpener and a sketch pad on the next shelf over. In the gift section, he found boxes of scented candles advertising an “authentic old book smell” (i.e., musky rain and dried paint and orange beanbag chairs).

  He spread the candles around the middle of the open floor, well away from the aisles of books and toys and tech and more, and then rolled out his sleeping bag, climbed in, and opened his sketch pad.

  “In the beginning, there was nothing,” he whispered. “Then the world. Then people, but no art. Then people made art. Then people died. Now there is art, but no people. And that’s how it went.”

  Even now, even here, when presented with a blank page, he stewed in the adrenaline of artistic possibility. He touched the pencil to paper—only this time, instead of drawing what he knew he would draw, the pencil stopped.

  He pulled it back.

  “That’s how it went.” Kit stared at the whiteness of the page, the possibility . . . “But only for a little while.” He let the pencil fall again, let it create. “Years passed. The old died and the young grew. And some became artists.” Whereas before, he had created different versions of the same thing, this was wholly new. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. But he thought it was good, maybe. “And now there are people again. And art. There are people and art together, the way it’s supposed to be.”

  At some point�
��there was no telling exactly when, as time seemed irrelevant in the land of BAM!—Nico and Lennon joined him in the center of the floor, rolled out their own sleeping bags, each having brought their stacks of favorites.

  “Trying to figure out how many I can justify bringing with,” said Nico, opening her bag.

  “Same. I can bring this”—Lennon held up a brick of a book called The Complete Stories: Volume 1, by a man named Isaac Asimov, which Kit thought was perhaps the awesomest name he’d ever heard—“or the first three Harry Potter books,” said Lennon.

  “I mean, as far as rereads go, I have to think HP holds up better than—”

  “I’ve never read Harry Potter.”

  Nico froze, slowly looked up. “Expelliarmus?”

  “What?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never read Harry Potter.”

  Nico looked to Kit. “A little help?”

  Kit went back to his sketch pad. “I only got to Q in fiction.”

  “Muggle-fucking son of a Squib.” Nico looked around the shop, as if the ghosts of booksellers past might come to her aid. “A slumber party—in a bookstore—and I’m stuck with a couple of HP virgins.”

  “Yeah, I’m going with Asimov.” Lennon tossed the Harry Potter books aside.

  “Wait—” Nico pointed to two books already in his bag. “What about those? You can replace those.”

  “Uh, no. Those are Ted Chiang’s short stories. Those are what you call non-negotiables? Yeah. I bring them with me or I stay here forever.”

  “Respect. That’s me, with these—” Nico held up two books: The Secret History by someone called Tartt, and I Am the Messenger by someone called Zusak.