The New Order Page 7

  I almost feel sorry for him, because presumably his ass is grass since my peeps escaped. He is definitely majoring in giving me the stink eye at the moment, with a minor in dropping dark hints about how Actions Have Consequences and the Kid Gloves Will Be Coming Off. I know a thing or two about metaphorical gloves of various kinds, all the way from Kid to Velvet-with-Iron-Fist-Therein, having knocked around post-apocalyptic Manhattan a fair bit, so I’m not exactly trembling in my boots.

  Anyhow, it seems like they’ve decided to ship me off someplace, “kick me upstairs,” as Ed put it. We’ve been flying around for a hella long time, which makes me think maybe Hawaii or England, like in the movie or advertisement or whatever they showed us.

  Hope it’s Hawaii. I’m not big on rain.

  I’m a high-level prisoner now. I’ve got a couple of armed guards, would-be badasses with protruding Adam’s apples. Plus, Ed is sporting a Beretta M9 in a sassy little side holster. Oh, and I have handcuffs on, linked up with chains to manacles on my ankles. All of which seems like a lot just for little old me. But I guess that overkill is the order of the day after our hijinks with the helicopter.

  If there were any windows, I would be gazing dreamily out of them, but there aren’t, so instead I gaze dreamily at the insides of my eyelids. Now, you might think that I’d be mooning about Jefferson, which would kind of make sense, given that for all I know, I’ll never see him again. But for some reason, my mind just won’t let me go there. Like, my heart—not the blood-pumping one but the metaphorical, lovey-dovey, pitter-pattering, breakable one—is an accessory that draws too much power, so the moment I start feeling, a fuse clicks over and the whole thing just goes dead.

  To pass the time, I conjure up a music video in my head. It’s set in Hawaii, of course, where I am welcomed with a big parade. There’s a luau with all kinds of amazing food, not the navy crap from the Ronald Reagan or the scrapings and scavengings from the last two years in Manhattan. Coconuts and mangoes and fresh fish and pineapples and pork, and I even eat the pork, despite the fact that I know it smells like roast human, because I also know that here in Hawaii, there’s no cannibalism. Cut to me learning to surf, and in no time, I’m riding monster waves and hanging ten and shredding. Then more food. Then—surprise!—Peter and Theo and Brainbox show up and—ta-da!—Jefferson emerges from the ocean like that clamshell lady. We go and eat some more, and then Jefferson and I retire to the honeymoon suite, with the DO NOT DISTURB sign swinging on the doorknob.

  The cargo plane comes down with a THUMP, and I realize that I’ve been asleep. The massive buzz-saw engines jam into reverse, and we rattle thunderously to a stop.

  One of the guards stands in front of me and motions me to stay in my chair, finger on the trigger of his carbine like I’m going to Hulk out and rip my chains to shreds. The big ramp at the back lowers. Outside it’s dark and rainy, with big chunks of greenish light and mist-filled air standing out in the blackness.

  I’m half expecting them to wheel me off in a handcart like Hannibal Lecter, but instead they just perp-walk me down to where a bunch of soldiers are waiting. Right as I leave the embrace of the cargo plane’s stale funk, a damp chill gets at me, and I think, Shit, I guess this isn’t Hawaii.

  Now two things filter into my awareness. First, something about the soldiers waiting for us. They’ve got these cute little wine-colored berets on, which is different from the squared-off camo baseball numbers the marines are sporting. Second, and weirdly, there’s a guy standing there under a black umbrella, and unlike everybody else, myself included, he’s not wearing a uniform. To be specific, he’s in a tailored gray flannel chalk-stripe suit.

  He approaches as I shuffle my way to the bottom of the ramp between my two goons. As the light from our hatch hits him, I get a quick read on his face—a pleasant, well-coiffed oval that just now appears to be registering some bemusement at my state of shackledness.

  Chalk-stripe: “Welcome to RAF Duxford.”

  Ed snaps a salute and says his name, which I don’t catch but, needless to say, isn’t Ed.

  Chalk-stripe: “Frank Welsh, Her Majesty’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office.”

  He somehow manages to show that he knows it’s a bit of a mouthful without making fun of it. He shakes hands with Ed, then turns to me. “And you must be Miss Zimmerman.”

  Me: “Yeah, I must.” It comes out hoarse because I haven’t spoken in a while. “But I’m called Donna. From Madonna. The singer, not the mother of God.”

  Welsh: “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Ed looks perturbed that Welsh is speaking to me at all and adopts this tone like he must not have gotten the memo about my being a traitorous bitch.

  Ed: “I have orders to escort the… her to J2HQ.”

  Welsh: “Ye-es.” He wears a sorry about this expression. “I’m afraid your orders have changed. Miss Zimmerman is to be put under the charge of Her Majesty’s government. Whose representative I am.” Welsh holds out a sheaf of papers.

  This appears to be a shockeroo to Ed, who stands there gaping for a moment before he takes them. He goggles at the pages, and Welsh points to a spot at the bottom of one. “You’ll see your J2 has countersigned the order there.”

  Welsh (turns to me): “J2 is what in England we unimaginatively call the Intelligence Office. Our term does have the benefit of being clear, but then your military never met an acronym it didn’t like.”

  I’m enjoying this new turn of events, and the humor that Welsh seems to find in everything. Ed is not.

  Ed: “I need to call this in.”

  Welsh: “Of course. There’s a secure line in the wing commander’s office. In the meanwhile, as it’s a bit of a walk, I think we might undo Miss Zimmerman—ah—Donna’s chains.”

  Ed straightens. “Not on my watch.”

  Welsh: “That’s just it. As those papers point out, it isn’t your watch anymore. It’s my watch.”

  Welsh is all blithe and smiley as ever, but his meaning is clear—he’s in charge now.

  So Ed decides to escalate, perhaps on account of how Welsh is just a dude with an umbrella and a fancy suit, and Ed has a pistol. He rests his hand sort of meaningfully on the heel of the Beretta, and says, “I don’t think so. We’re going to do this my way.”

  “OI! FRANK SINATRA! GET YOUR HAND OFF THAT FUCKING PISTOL BEFORE I SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROAT!”

  This is in a high-pitched shriek that somehow still manages to sound macho, coming from one of the dudes in the berets. All of a sudden, there are twenty submachine guns pointed at Ed and my two guards, and Ed does, in fact, takes his hand off the pistol.

  I can’t help but smile at the “My Way” Frank Sinatra joke and think to myself that it’s pretty impressive to be funny while threatening someone. The British soldiers (genius deduction on my part) creep forward like they’re ready for Ed and his guys to make a move any second. Which is not going to happen, because they’re pissing themselves.

  Welsh: “I’ll take that pistol into safekeeping just for the moment so that you don’t frighten Sergeant Major Rollitt anymore. You’re frightened, aren’t you, Sergeant Major?”

  Shouty Guy: “I’M FUCKING PETRIFIED, BEGGING YOUR PARDON, SAH!” He doesn’t look very frightened. But Ed does. He holds his hands way up high and practically sashays his hip forward so that Welsh can more easily take his gun. Meanwhile, Shouty and the other beret boys relieve the two marines of their M4s.

  Welsh: “Sorry I don’t have a receipt to hand, but I promise you’ll get these back once you’ve made your call. Now—shall you undo her chains, or will I?”

  Ed gives Welsh the keys, and lickety-split, I’m minus one set of manacles and handcuffs. “Thanks,” I say.

  Welsh: “My pleasure. I should reiterate that you are here at the pleasure of Her Majesty’s government, so I must ask you to refrain from leaving under your own recognizance.”

  Me: “Say what?”

  Welsh: “Please don’t run away.”

  Me: “Wher
e would I go?”

  Welsh: “Well put. This way, please.” He offers me the shelter of his umbrella, and then we turn and walk off, like he’s my English uncle who just happens to have a squad of bodyguards.

  Things may be looking up.

  THE NOSE OF the trim little Zodiac bellies through the chop. We’re close to shore, just past the impact zone of the waves. I’ve told Chapel that we’re in range of potshots from land, but he’s keen to stay as close as possible, in case the carrier group has dispatched boats to look for us.

  The Zodiac is unremarkable, a tough shark-gray rubber inflatable with a little outboard. The high-tech stuff is all hidden: a bunch of medical equipment and self-heating MREs, H&K submachine guns, body armor, an Iridium satellite phone with hand-crank generator so that we can keep in touch with the others back at the airfield.

  Shame keeps rising in me, like I’ve eaten something rotten, but there’s no way to vomit it out. So I rehearse the justifications in my mind again.

  Solon can’t be trusted with the power of both life and death. That’s no knock against him in particular—nobody can be trusted. So it’s essential that we keep control of the Cure.

  I shouldn’t feel particularly beholden to Solon. He was ready to put a bullet in my head the day he met me, and he would have if it hadn’t been for the outside chance that we’d return with the Cure.

  But it doesn’t feel right to violate the terms of our deal. I admire the little city-state the Harlemites have managed to establish in the north of Manhattan, and I understand why they’re arming up. Personal attachment comes into it as well. Theo and Captain went through hell with us. Or maybe purgatory would be more accurate; we had our sins burned off. Our time on Plum Island had broken down us and them—although, when it came down to it, there were different overlapping kinds of “us.” Just which “us” would come into play at any given time was the question.

  If Solon finds out the truth of it all, there’s no telling what he’ll do. I expect he’d be true to his word with regard to my tribe. He promised that my people would get the Cure as well. But I don’t believe he’d extend his sympathies any further. And I didn’t go through what I did to let everybody else die.

  That’s why we’ve left Theo behind, guarded by Kroger—the midshipwoman—and the bearded guy, Dooley, who turns out to be a Navy SEAL. Chapel told Theo he’s being kept “in reserve,” and that he’ll come into play if the plan changes, but on some level, we all know he’s being held captive.

  So instead, this is the plan—or, as I call it, the Big Lie.

  We won’t tell anybody about the Ronald Reagan, or all the survivors out there. Chapel says it’s too much for people to handle. He talks about “social chaos,” which I remind him is pretty much the constant state of affairs in New York, but he points out that it could actually be worse. Under the weight of the truth, he says, the fragile jerry-built constructs of tribe and allegiance and turf would collapse and it’d be everyone for themselves. He’s probably right.

  Chapel says that there’s no rescue coming anyway, since the US has no intention of saving my fellow plague rats. The mainland is strictly no-go. The rest of the world is under the sway of a deliberate campaign of misinformation. If the folks back “home,” that is to say, within the American Diasporic community, knew just what was going on, the push to save Teen America might be too much to resist, but the military is keeping a tight cap on the news. The official attitude is that there’s too much risk of infection to justify an all-out rescue mission. Chapel candidly terms this “sheer bullshit” and says that the brass are just too cautious and too callous.

  His idea is to create an environment in which the truth can eventually be released without causing too much harm. A society unified and strong enough to learn the truth without tearing itself to bits. Maybe Chapel’s dossier on me is complete enough for him to know that this is the sort of thing that I’d find intoxicating. Because what he’s got in mind is nothing less than building a new society. At least, that’s what I make of it. Chapel’s notion is entirely pragmatic—survival at all costs. My take on it is something more ambitious.

  Either way, the plan still involves returning to Harlem. Given their imminent dominance of Manhattan, it makes sense to have the Harlemites on our side. But by no means can they know the truth. Instead, a diet of half truths. We’ll maintain the story of our escape from the lab at Plum Island, along with the discovery of the Cure, but leave out the arrival of the navy and everything that followed. In the new version of events, Theo and Captain and Donna have been killed, and Chapel is a teenager from Plum Island who helped us escape. This last part shouldn’t be too hard to pull off. He’s barely twenty anyway, and his face is undeniably boyish. He can probably pass.

  And maybe the story will work.

  So long as we can lie fluently and consistently.

  The top of Manhattan slips past, smoke visible and stench practically tangible. Notwithstanding the fires and the flies, it is a glorious summer day, and the sky is blue and insipid.

  “The abomination of desolation,” I hear Peter mutter; at least that’s what I think he says.

  “What?”

  “Never mind, man. Just means we’re back in the shit.”

  At the landing at the FDR Drive, where weeks ago we set off in the Annie, we turn the Zodiac’s nose to shore. There’s a squad of Harlemites waiting there for us with a pickup truck. They must have seen us coming, judging from the binoculars one of them is sporting and the general air of preparedness. Faces are hard. Guns are leveled. Not the welcoming committee I’d expected.

  Somebody shoulders up to the front of the squad. It’s Imani, the moon-faced girl who runs the tribe with Solon. If she’s happy to see me, she doesn’t let on.

  “We figured you for dead,” she says.

  “We made it,” I say.

  “Not all of you,” she says.

  I nod. She doesn’t add anything. Maybe shame looks like grief.

  With this first scrap of dishonesty, it’s begun, and there’s no getting out. The spring of the Big Lie begins to unwind like a cheap toy, and we are clattering across the floor, not knowing where it’ll stop.

  The Harlemites are still in the vaguely menacing, untrusting mode that they were in when we left, which suits me just fine, since a hero’s welcome would be even harder to take. The ride in the jerry-rigged pickup truck is silent except for one question from Imani:

  “What happened to your girl?”

  I’m surprised. I can’t imagine her caring.

  “Gone,” I say.

  That’s it. No further questions until we are escorted up the stairs of Solon’s, the snug little brownstone still in perfect trim. The grandfather clock whiles away the hours; there are apples still in the silver bowl in the waiting room.

  In the moments we wait, a crowd gathers at the door. We see them through the lace curtains of the bow window. Ten, then twenty, then a hundred, a murmur of questions and a battery of eyes.

  We are called on—the first time, forever ago, it was Theo who walked us up the creaking wooden stairway—and led into Solon’s office.

  Not an item out of place, but something new—a rack of the plastic guns they’ve been printing. Solon is working the safety of a piece-built plastic AR-15 with a barrel of freshly tooled pipe metal.

  “Look who came back with his shield,” he says.

  Solon is as smooth as ever, his hair neatly buzzed, the white linen shirt crisp. But there is a laboring in his speech, a slackness in his usually alert face. His eyes are yellowish and shot through with red.

  He’s at the beginning of the end.

  Maybe that’ll make it easier, maybe not. Kids at the end have been known to make some fairly short-term decisions. I look at Imani, whose face shuts like a closed shop.

  “Yeah, that,” says Solon. “Been feeling my years.”

  A lot of kids in his position would dive into the conversation and look for the ring at the bottom—can you save my life?—
but Solon is different. Gently he sets down the rifle and smiles. “Looks like you’ve been through some changes, too.”

  The story that Chapel and I have worked out is there in my head, ready to be spat out, but it doesn’t come to my lips.

  “Theo? Captain? Spider?”

  Still nothing. I can only shake my head. And shame claws a tear from my eye. Shame that produces more shame—at the lie, at the tear itself.

  Solon watches me, observes the passage of the teardrop like he’s watching a train wind its way through a foggy landscape.

  “Okay,” he says. His face refracts a single ray of sorrow, then again assumes its angle of composure. “There were others—the two young ladies.”

  “Donna and Kath. They’re—they didn’t make it, either.” Part of this is at least true—Kath is dead on a slab at Plum Island. And Spider, for that matter, is dead, too, by the hands of the Islanders who took the tugboat Annie by Orient Point. The sorrow now catches like a kick-started engine, and my hands come up to cover my face.

  Solon waits me out like he has all the time in the world, then asks: “Who is this with you?”

  “I’m Chapel,” he says. “I saved their lives.”

  And then the cover story coalesces, pieces of a puzzle thrown on the floor that we shove into place, and at some point, I realize that it’s the very jaggedness of the telling that makes it work. The tears and the grief—I can’t tell if I’m mourning my friends or my self-respect or both—sell the lie. The capture by the Islanders. The experimentation. The rescue by Chapel, all salted with a handful of truth.

  “Then I guess my question is,” says Solon, “was it worth it? Did you find what you were looking for?”