The Young World Read online

  I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to take control. Maybe it’s time to do something big. Maybe I should tell Donna how I feel.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  It’s been a while since I realized that I was in love with Donna. When I did, it seemed like I always had been in love with her, and that everybody else who had taken up my emotional time had been a smoke screen, channel surfing, Web browsing.

  It just seemed too obvious to fall for the girl I’d known since nursery school. So I didn’t do anything about it.

  And then she had a thing for my dead brother.

  I guess he felt the same way about her. This is what Washington really said, when Donna left us alone.

  “It’s all over, Jeff.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “We’re running out of medicine,” he said. “We’re running out of food. We’re running out of ammo.

  “Listen to me. These people are finished. You’ve got to get out of here. You and Donna, take all the ammo and take all the food you can. Save yourselves. Anybody stands in your way, kill them.”

  Maybe he was right.

  Maybe he was just losing it.

  So I didn’t tell everybody what he actually said. Everybody likes a good story.

  Brainbox doesn’t drop the library idea. That’s his way. He was always talking Washington into these expeditions.

  He’d show up all overheated and tell Wash, “I’ve located some deep-cycle batteries in Chinatown, we can use them to power the blahbity-blahs, and I can replace the paper filters if I have the right acid bath.” Then they’d bushwhack down to Canal Street, Wash the brawn and Brainbox the—well, you get it.

  Before It Happened, nobody really gave BB much credit. Everybody treated him like an embarrassment. I mean, the kid was president of the Robotics Club. (He was also its only member.) But it turned out the things that made BB a social pariah before What Happened were things we needed after. People were pretty stoked when he used something called Arduino to make a wooden platform that rotated everybody’s little solar chargers to face the sun all day. That way they could still listen to their iPods. They appreciated that he knew how to make heaters with nothing but wood, black paint, and mirrors. He was the only one who could keep generators running or rig a spider box. Whatever that is.

  So BB shows up at my place. He absently twiddles the crank on his radio as he looks at my bookshelves. My castle walls against insanity.

  “You’ve got a lot of fiction,” he says.

  “So?”

  “So it’s all made-up stories about made-up people.”

  “And?”

  “And that means it’s all lies. It can’t be verified.”

  “It can’t be quantified,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

  Not to Brainbox, I guess.

  “Why are you wearing black?” he asks me.

  “No reason,” I say. Then, “I don’t know. Mourning.”

  “Oh. I thought it was to trap sunlight for heat.”

  “No,” I say.

  “So have you thought about the abstract?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “And?”

  “If we find out what you need…”

  “Yeah?” says Brainbox.

  “What can you do about it? Will it actually make a difference?”

  “Maybe,” says Brainbox. “Maybe not.”

  “Let me put it this way, BB. The Sickness killed my parents, and it killed my brother. I want revenge. Can you do that? Can you kill it?”

  “I can try,” says Brainbox.

  Good enough for me.

  I have dreams about the Sickness. Sometimes it takes a human shape. A figure wearing a hazmat suit, with nothing inside but a blinding white light.

  I know that I have turned the Sickness into a person because it is so hard to grasp the idea of something as tiny as a microbe defeating us. And it was hard to understand how something that started as a rumor, a throwaway item, blotted out everything else within the space of a few months. It has only been two years since a man reported to Lenox Hill Hospital complaining of chest pains. Within a day, the entire hospital was riddled with the Sickness, and the reconstructed line of Patient Zero’s movements through the city was like a wound bleeding infection all over the map. As soon as he had been identified, another popped up, then another and another, until it was clear that containment was hopeless.

  As the Sickness worked its way out from New York, up and down the East Coast, across the country to California, it was impossible not to see It as something gigantic—a single entity with a purpose of its own. Whereas in fact, it was a virus, an exponential host of scraps of life so fractured, we were told, that it was hardly life at all.

  Eventually nothing explained it, and nothing defeated it. Not the CDC or prayer or quarantine or emergency sessions of Congress or martial law. And one by one, the Internet, then TV, then radio winked out, and in their place came hysteria. By the time we were isolated, the West Coast, Canada, and South America were in the throes, and the first cases had been reported in Europe and China. A month later, all the adults in New York were gone, and the children, too.

  Mom hung in for a long time, and I think she would have been around longer if my dad had still been alive. It wasn’t that she believed she would join him—except in some totally conceptual sort of way—but I think she saw less reason to hang around at the party. She told me and Wash that she didn’t feel so bad for herself, since she’d lived a good life. But her heart was breaking for us.

  When I thought about how many times I’d wished my parents would just leave me alone, I felt sick.

  Chiquita is waiting in the cloisters at the entrance to the old NYU School of Law.

  She’s a Ford F-150 pickup truck with bulletproof glass, metal reinforcement, and tires filled with silicone so they can’t go flat or get shot out. All thanks to Brainbox and Wash.

  There’s a patchy mold of insignia, stencils, and graffiti on the side. DAYS SINCE LAST ACCIDENT: 0… COME GET SOME… IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU’RE DEAD. Saint Christopher, bobblehead Buddhas, and hula girls on the dash. Cans of siphoned gas in the back.

  Generalissimo gets the keys. Which means she’s my ride.

  Brainbox takes the tarp off the swivel-mounted M2 and eyes its works. We found the M2 one day when we were sweeping through the Village for anything useful. The nut who owned it must have been planning to shoot up the neighborhood, but he never got his chance.

  For the rest of our armament, we’ve borrowed some guns off the day watch. This leaves the tribe a little light on weaponry.

  There just aren’t enough guns to go around in New York Failed State. Private ownership was low in the city, and except for Dad, who was a veteran and a gun owner, I didn’t know anybody in my school who had access to a firearm.

  The first thing Wash had us do when we formed the tribe was raid the Sixth Precinct. You’d be surprised what you can find at your local police station. When the cops made a bust, they were in no hurry to let go of the guns they seized. The uniformed guys and the detectives couldn’t use them, but the SWAT teams could. We found various makes of AR-15, AKs, Ruger M77s, even a Barrett M82 sniper rifle that could put a hole in a wall from a mile away. But it wasn’t enough.

  Because guns don’t kill people; people kill people—but guns definitely help people kill people better.

  “Hey!” I hear. “Hello-oh?” It’s Donna, jogging around some tomato plants. “Where are you going?”

  “Road trip,” I say.

  “That abstract thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m coming with.” Not like she’s asking.

  I weigh my concern for her safety against the appeal of being near her. The crush wins.

  “Fine, hop in.”

  “Back in ten.” She bounces off again.

  I go through my backpack. Two-liter CamelBak filled with clean water. Check. Two cans of tuna, two cans of green beans, a Leatherman Multi-tool, a packet of beef
jerky (teriyaki-style), a Milky Way, a blanket, a Smith & Wesson twenty-one-inch collapsible baton, two boxes of 55-grain rounds for the AR-15, three extra 30-round mags, my ancestral wakizashi short sword.

  Road trip.

  CHAPTER 6

  ONE OF THE MORE BOGUS of the bogosities of our unnetworked times is that you have to actually go see somebody in the flesh if you want to talk to them. I mean, I really took for granted that if you wanted to speak to somebody you could just text them and be, like, “Wasuuuupppp?” or “Heyyyy” (people thought it was rude if you didn’t expend the thumb energy to add extra letters). I have to, like, hoof it over to Peter’s place.

  He lives in the old apartment building on the west side of the park. It used to be fancy. Some poor dude had to wear a goofy uniform and wait around to open the door for people all day. Now the bulbs and glass panels in the marquee awning are all smashed, and the foyer is like an ocean full of trash islands—a Garbagelapagos.

  You take the back stairs to go up, since the elevator doesn’t work. There’s a rope you slide your hand along to lead you up in the dark, and you can tell by the number of knots what floor you’re on.

  Peter’s pied-à-terre, as he calls it, is on the second floor. Pretty prime location.

  It takes him a while to answer the door. He must have been getting his beauty rest.

  The interior of the pied-à-terre is done up like a giant Facebook page. Like, he’s painted a giant blue stripe all the way around the walls. There’s a big picture of him above a bunch of tabs, and then pictures of his “friends.” When he doesn’t have a real picture, he’s drawn one. I’m a stick figure with spiky brown lines sticking out of her head and two little apple boobs.

  His “status,” which is on a shingle that he changes from time to time, is currently pensive.

  I go to the wall, which serves as his “timeline,” and write, Can you cover for me today? I’m going on a road trip with Jefferson.

  Peter: “Eff that, bitch. I’m coming with. Unless it’s, like, a date or something.”

  Me: “Uh, no.”

  Peter: “Why not? I always liked Jefferson better than Wash. Wash was too butch for you. Jefferson’s a total NILF.”

  Me: “I’m guessing the first word in that is nerd?”

  Peter: “Uh-huh.”

  Me: “Gross.”

  Peter is my best friend in the tribe. I sort of never fit in with the other girls at my school, not even my besties, and Peter, well, he never fit in with anybody. Not even the kids at Stonewall.

  For one thing, he’s African American, which kind of ups the rarity factor vis-à-vis gay dudes. For another, he’s Christian—I didn’t know that was even allowed.

  “For real?” I asked him when he told me.

  “Jesus is my homeboy,” he said.

  And, you know how gay dudes are supposed to be all neat and persnickety? Not so much. It’s like a teen girl and her brother are living in the same room.

  He holds up two knapsacks. “My Little Pony for that Harajuku look, or should I go all macho and Fjällräven?”

  Me: “The second one, if you don’t want to get us shot.”

  Peter: “You’re paranoid.”

  Me: “Yeah, I’m totally overreacting to all those armed mobs. You really want to go outside the walls?”

  Peter: “Yes. I’m dying of boredom. I’ve gotta get out. Meet some people. Only time I ever leave is to look for, like, dried garbanzo beans and beef jerky. Bo-ring.”

  Peter’s always complaining about meeting people. He says the apocalypse wrecked his love life.

  Me: “This is not a girls’ night out. It’s, like, a very serious mission or something. To the library.”

  Peter: “We have a library.”

  Me: “Jefferson wants to go to a bigger library.”

  Peter: “Didn’t know he was a size queen. Fine, let’s go to the library. Who knows what’ll happen on the way?” He sets the scene. “Pablo didn’t know he had such desires in him until the day he saw the dashing stranger’s eyes over the stinking heap of rubble. But when he saw him through the smoke of the burning tires, his heart leaped like a feral cat.”

  Me: “Nice. Do you think we can convince Jefferson to go to the Bazaar?”

  I’ve heard that there’s a market in the old Grand Central. I’ve kind of been dying to check it out.

  Peter: “I don’t think I have much sway with him. You, on the other hand—”

  Me: “Shut up. I’m not his type.”

  Peter: “Please. There aren’t enough people left to have ‘types’ anymore.”

  There’s a piece of rebar with a duct-tape handle leaning against the corner. He hefts it in his left hand while he adjusts his status:

  Out kicking ass

  CHAPTER 7

  I GO:

  Namu butsu

  Yo butsu u in

  Yo butsu u en

  Buppō sō en

  Jō raku ga jō

  Chō nen kanzeon

  Bo nen kanzeon

  Nen nen jū shin ki

  Nen nen fu ri shin.

  You could call it a Buddhist “Our Father.” Except it’s not addressed to a father, but Kanzeon, aka Kuan Yin, aka the Bodhisattva of Compassion.

  Don’t get me wrong—I’m not some kind of Zen Holy Roller. It’s just that, of all the stuff people have managed to think up as opposed to “it all means nothing,” Buddhism makes the most sense to me. And it just happens to be what I grew up with.

  Dad said he used to chant it on patrol in Italy during World War II. As you can tell from that, he was an oldie. Seventy-three when Mom had me. She met him when she was writing a book about the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, the most decorated American unit in World War II. They were a bunch of kids whose families were interned in camps because of their Japanese ancestry. So they went and kicked ass all over Italy and Germany. Took it out on the fascists abroad instead of the ones at home.

  Anyhow, I guess you could say Mom got really, really involved in her subject.

  They got to work making East and West meet, raising a litter of scholar-soldiers.

  Wash got the soldier part. He’d just applied to West Point when the first cases of the Sickness started showing up on TV. Me? I guess I got the scholar part. For what it was worth.

  Going outside is a roll of the dice. Sometimes it’s a cakewalk. Go, snag some food or medicine, and hightail it home. Sometimes you don’t get home. There’re banditos, wild dogs, toxic smoke, flash fires. Randoms who’ve gone nuts and don’t care anymore. Berserkers, rageaholics, rapeaholics. I’ve even heard of kids who murder people for fun.

  Why?

  Why not?

  Those two questions pretty much sum things up these days: a big WHY? and, right next to it, a big WHY NOT?

  Wash would’ve had everybody do a weapons check, so I do, too. While they’re going through their stuff, I do a people check. We’ve got:

  Brainbox (evil genius)

  Donna (slightly unhinged girl-power chick)

  Peter (gay Christian adrenaline junkie)

  And me (nerd philosopher king)

  Not exactly the Fellowship of the Ring, but not too shabby, either, when you think about it. I can’t say the selection committee did such a great job at the Council of Elrond. Four hobbits? Seriously? Out of nine people? I know it all worked out, but—questionable management.

  I’d rather drive out in silence, but I’m voted down. So I insist on choosing the music. I really don’t want to die to a Nicki Minaj track.

  The Big-Ass Speakers, sucking strength from the engine, pound out Buju Banton’s “Ring the Alarm.” The whole car rattles to a sleng-teng rhythm. Oh, Divine Internal Combustion! We hardly knew ye!

  We go out the east gate, down Washington Place. I’m driving; Brainbox is shotgun (literally). Peter, in back with Donna, is manning the .50 cal.

  On post, Ingrid snaps a sharp salute before closing the gate. Frank is there, too, looking pissed off not to be going, but he’s the best g
uy to be in charge. Who knows if I’ll make it back. From this point, we’re out to sea. I watch the Square recede in the mirror.

  The first few blocks are inside our scavenging radius. Every abandoned taxi and garbage Dumpster and looted storefront is familiar. All the same, I have to go slowly, maneuvering the slalom course of junked cars and detritus. Of course, I want to blast through here like the Master Chief, but these days you don’t get points for acting cool. Sometimes you just get dead.

  Scaffolding exoskeletons, the tattered purple banners of New York University. Chinese food menus, takeout napkins, traffic cones, mangled bikes chained to posts, garbage cans rolling on their sides. Bone-dry, busted-open fire hydrants.

  As I drive through, I think, You sucker.

  I bought it hook, line, and sinker. I thought the filmy walls of the bubble were solid rock. Woke up to the buzzing of a clock fed with electricity from coal burned on Long Island. Rinsed my mouth with water from the Catskills. For breakfast, eggs from Vermont, bread from a bakery factory in California. Butter from Iceland. Coffee from Colombia. Mangoes from the Philippines. I bounced my voice off a satellite in geosynchronous orbit. A bus powered by million-year-old plants and microorganisms took me where I needed to go. People impersonating imaginary characters clamored to entertain me on liquid crystal boxes.

  I saw no reason this shouldn’t continue.

  Sucker.

  There are no bodies for the first few blocks. We burned them all in the early days to make a disease-and-critter-free zone.

  For the most part, people had done their dying inside.

  At first, they flooded the hospitals. Later, when they realized that nothing could be done for them, they grew ashamed of being sick and hid. We’d treated death like a dirty little secret for so long we had no way to face it in the open. We crawled back to our dens and turned on CNN and Fox News and died in front of the television.

  Foot light on the gas pedal, I scan the street for anything new. There’s the empty police van, there’s the abandoned Tesla, the door still open. The Mercs and the Beemers and Toyotas, Lexi, Hondas, Fords, Chryslers, GMCs, Caddies. All the gas tanks are empty. The hoods are open and spray-painted with symbols. B means the battery’s been stripped; G means the gas has been siphoned.