The Young World Page 7

  “Well, it’s considered polite to respond in some fashion.” I’m getting annoyed, which is a weird place to go from telling somebody you love her. Heartbroken, yes. Pissed off, no.

  “Polite? Well, I guess I’m just not a polite enough girl for you, then.”

  This whole conversation is making my head hurt. From what I can tell, she’s not crazy about what I said. Or me. If she were, it would’ve been all over right there. All she has to do is say I love you, too. Simple. But instead she’s splitting hairs and starting fights.

  Except, “not a polite enough girl for you”… that implies that she does think about the possibility of being a girl for me, right? Except for certain differences of character? That’s promising, right?

  We just stand there for a while, staring at each other. I can see her heartbeat in her neck. I want to kiss her. That’s maybe what I should do. But she hasn’t given me the go-ahead.

  Welcome to the suck, as Wash would say.

  I’m almost relieved when I hear the booming of the .50-cal from the street outside.

  We run toward the noise, out of the reading room, through the catalog room, down the dark stairs.

  It’s like a conversation. Some tentative pop-pop-pops of small arms, like a suggestion, and then the M2’s throaty roar, like somebody trying to put an end to an argument.

  But it keeps going on.

  Peter arrives in the foyer just as we do. I thumb the safety off the AR-15 and switch to single shot.

  I can see her through the fretwork of the brass front doors: SeeThrough’s wispy frame is huddled behind the .50-cal. Her legs are off the side of the cab, her feet propped against the open window frame of the driver’s seat.

  She’s choosing her shots carefully. She knows that she doesn’t have many bullets to spare.

  The Uptowners, the same crew that brought the pig, are scattered behind cover to the south. Some of them are using the frontage of the BCBG Max Azria store on the northeast corner of the street; the others are perched behind a stone railing on the south end of the library plaza. They’re popping from cover and taking potshots, afraid of what the .50-cal can do if they get in the open.

  SeeThrough’s advantage won’t last long. She’s running out of ammo, and soon enough the Uptowners are going to send somebody around the other side of the library. Then they’ll have her flanked.

  I have to do something.

  The only thing to do is to give up Chiquita and get SeeThrough into the library.

  I’m not usually this brave, not brave at all, really. But I got SeeThrough into this. I’m the one who let her come along.

  And besides, part of me wants to get wounded. Picturesquely wounded, that is, not seriously wounded. Just so Donna has some regrets. Not the cleverest way to build up my courage, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Cover me,” I tell the others. “I’m going to bring her back.”

  I’m half hoping they’ll tell me not to do it, but they nod and smash the noses of their guns through the door glass. Now I have to go.

  I take a breath and open the door while the others lay down suppressing fire on the Uptowners. The tack-tack-tack of our guns keeps them from getting a bead on me.

  “SeeThrough!” I shout.

  She runs out of bullets just as I’m out the door. A tinny click-click resounds along the street. She looks back at me, wide-eyed with fear. One of those frozen moments, the kind people talk about when they describe falling or almost dying. Time seems lazy. Then it hurries along, bringing the crack of guns aimed at SeeThrough and me.

  “Get off the truck!” I yell, and then I hit the ground as a bullet breaks a step near my foot. My elbows and knees bang the stone hard, and I suddenly can’t catch my breath.

  And I see Cheekbones peeking around the edge of the store. He’s motioning for his people to rush the truck now that the .50-cal is out. I raise my rifle and position him behind the front sights, take in a breath and let half of it out, and as I’m about to pull the trigger, Cheekbones sees me. Recognizes me.

  Then a flamethrower vomits fire onto Chiquita and the truck explodes.

  It’s thunderous, deafening. A shock wave blows my hair back, sends my shot wide, and almost takes the gun out of my grip.

  Searing heat from the flames.

  Chiquita is a blackened metal skeleton, the fire reaching ten feet high.

  I see a couple of the Uptowners, the closest to Chiquita, on the ground, covering their heads. Others are inching their way toward me.

  I try to stand up but can’t. The message isn’t getting through to my arms and legs. My hands can’t seem to grip the gun.

  Cheekbones looks around the corner.

  Takes aim at me. Smiles.

  And then the edge of the building above his head explodes into powder, and a steady rat-tat-tat from the entrance of the library sends the Uptowners hustling back to cover. I feel myself pulled by the collar of my jacket, dragged up the stone stairs toward the entrance, where Donna is firing. I see Peter’s face upside down against a blue sky as he pulls me to safety.

  And I think about how we’ve lost somebody as I black out.

  CHAPTER 14

  JEFFERSON’S EYES ARE rolling back in his head, and I’m afraid I’m going to lose him.

  Peter is at the door firing his Glock. I never realized he was so strong. He pulled Jeff up the stairs like a duffel bag.

  Peter: “Is he gonna be okay?”

  Me: “Yeah.” Yeah. Maybe.

  This has gone south, and fast. Bushwhacked in the Union and now stuck here, with SeeThrough gone and Jeff out of it.

  And Brainbox is nowhere to be seen.

  Peter: “They’re leaving.”

  I ease my bag under Jefferson’s head and crawl over to the doors.

  The Uptowners are bailing. I guess they only wanted the truck. Now that it’s up in flames, all the aggro has gone out of them.

  I go back to Jefferson. His eyeballs are moving under the eyelids, making the soft skin roll like he’s dreaming, like something is cresting the water.

  “Dude,” I say, “come on.”

  No response. I lean close to him.

  Me: “Wake up, Jeff. Please.”

  Please don’t let it end like this.

  A thought flashes through my mind. Kiss him. An image. Our lips touching, kindling the spark of life.

  Why not?

  But before any of that happens, he coughs, rolls over onto his side, and gingerly pushes himself up.

  You were close, buddy.

  Jefferson: “SeeThrough?”

  Nobody talks. Peter wipes tears from his eyes.

  Peter: “She’s gone, man.”

  Jefferson squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s trying to keep the thought out of his head.

  Jefferson: “Where’s Brainbox?”

  Me: “Don’t know.”

  Jeff picks himself up and looks out the door. The flames from the truck play on his face even though it’s still daylight.

  He stares at it a long time, like he’s hoping SeeThrough is going to come walking out of the wreckage. When he comes back, he looks dead tired.

  Jefferson: “Let’s eat something. Then we find Brainbox and go home.”

  Peter: “What about the journal?”

  Jefferson: “Fuck the journal.”

  We circle around our packs and have a quick meal in the foyer. Nobody has much to say.

  I think about what Jefferson said in the reading room.

  At first I didn’t know what to say to him. I thought there was no way he could really love me—I mean, whatever that means. If he knew me well enough, he wouldn’t. He’s all idealistic, and I’m all flawed. Maybe it was just leftover adrenaline from the scrap at the Union.

  Besides, seeing him lights-out? Maybe I’m sick, maybe I was supposed to realize how much he meant to me, but—all I could think was that there was no point loving somebody when you know you’re going to lose them so soon. Maybe that’s cowardly. I don’t know.

>   Jefferson keeps checking to see if the Uptowners are coming back, but there’s no sign of them.

  Peter: “It’s not your fault.”

  Jefferson: “Whose fault is it?”

  Me: “She wanted to come.”

  Jefferson: “And I wanted to cure the Sickness. So we’re both idiots.” Jeff stows the rest of his beef jerky in his bag and gets up.

  “Give me that sledgehammer.” Jefferson takes it and slips it through the handles of the door, securing it.

  Peter: “You don’t want to leave somebody behind to guard the entrance?”

  Jefferson: “No more leaving anybody behind.” He looks for a second like he’s going to cry, then just sniffs and starts up the stairs.

  I’m expecting—worrying? hoping?—that he’ll buddy up with me again. Maybe I could explain the way I acted in the reading room. Maybe. But he wants to go on his own. I’m with Peter.

  Me: “Shouldn’t we stay together?”

  Jefferson shakes off the idea. I think, basically, he doesn’t want to be around me.

  So we’re not looking for the article or paper or whatever. We’re looking for Brainbox. We’re looking to drag ourselves home.

  Epic fail.

  We search the ground floor, keeping in touch with Jeff on our walkies. We call out for Brainbox but hear nothing back.

  I figure he’s staring at a diagram of a molecule or something, so absorbed that he doesn’t hear us. I mean, if he didn’t hear the fricking firefight, I don’t know what’s going to catch his attention.

  Nada on the second floor. Jefferson, clearing the third, can’t find him, either.

  “Nothing,” says a digitized version of Jefferson’s voice through the walkie.

  I tell Peter that I’m worried about Jeff.

  Peter: “Worried how?”

  Me: “Worried like he’s losing it.”

  Peter: “When was the last time you got somebody killed?”

  Me: “Uh, never?”

  Peter: “Well.”

  It’s dark down here—only the occasional bleed of light from outside when we pass a room with exterior windows.

  Without electric lights, your average city building is just a stack of square caves with a few holes in it. This place is like a tunnel complex.

  Fortunately, I’ve got a pair of night-vision goggles we scrounged back in the day, when we hit the SWAT lockers at the precinct. A creepy setup with two eyepieces but only one eye stalk projecting out that makes me look like some techno-insect Cyclops. When I look through them, everything seems like the scariest part of a found-footage movie.

  Peter has a much less impressive rig, a tiny Petzl headlamp that provides a little normal illumination. Without that, I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The goggles need a little light to work.

  Me: “But it wasn’t his fault.”

  Peter: “Tell that to him.” We keep edging around the walls. “Jefferson’s a brooder. He’s gonna blame himself.”

  His last words echo, and on the right, a doorway appears. I see a big room—maybe a hundred feet square—filled with tables, pictures mounted on the walls, dividers running its length. It’s hard to tell what the place is for. Through the goggles it’s all just shapes of Day-Glo green and band-shirt black.

  Me: “Jeff told me he loved me. Hello? Brainbox? You there?”

  Peter: “What?” I’m blinded for a moment by his headlamp. “Girl! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Me: “I just did. Turn that light the other way, will you? You’re burning my eyes out.”

  Peter: “And what did you say? What did you do? Did you just do him right there?”

  Me: “What? No! It wasn’t that kind of, like, moment.”

  Peter: “Girrrl, I told you things get interesting when you get out of camp! So?”

  I can’t really see his face, but if I could, I know one eyebrow or the other would be raised.

  Me: “So nothing.”

  Peter: “You don’t love him back?”

  Me: “I don’t even get that word anymore. I mean, love was, like, Before. When you could take people out to dinner and watch movies and get married and have kids and stuff. Love is, like, forever stuff. I’ve got, what, two years to live?”

  Peter (practically shouting): “But that’s what makes it so romantic!” He seems annoyed with me. “Don’t you get it? It’s the end of the world! That’s exactly when you fall in love. When else?”

  Me: “Wrong. That’s exactly when you get desperate and convince yourself that you love somebody. Even though you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Peter: “Who cares? Quit staying on the sidelines. Game’s almost over.”

  Me: “Ooh, sports. You’re so butch.”

  Peter: “Shut up. The meaning of the word! The meaning of the word is the word. The meaning of the word is… it’s being able to say it. He’s obviously nuts about you.”

  Me: “What?”

  Peter: “Ugh, you are such a dizzy bitch. Well, if you’re not going to go for it, I will.”

  Me: “He’s all yours.”

  Then I feel a funny little bumping in my chest. Jealousy? Ridiculous.

  A man in a white robe is standing in front of us.

  I scream—okay, I’ll say it, I scream like a girl—and step back. Peter has his gun up and shouts at him to stay right there, don’t fucking move!

  The guy doesn’t move. At all. Nobody can be that still.

  That’s when I realize it’s a dummy wearing some kind of robe or something.

  There’s a badge on the chest—a black X on a red background. At first I think it’s a costume from one of those superhero movies everybody was into. Then I look up and see the pointy white cowl.

  It’s a Ku Klux Klan outfit.

  Me: “You see this?”

  Peter: “Yes. WTF?”

  Looking around, I realize that what I thought were tables are actually display cases. We’re in some kind of exhibition room. Peter and I fan out, checking what’s inside the cases. I find a copy of the Koran, a picture of Malcolm X kneeling on a carpet. He has a nice face.

  Peter: “Um, I think I just found the first draft of the Declaration of Independence.”

  Me: “Ha-ha.”

  Peter: “No, for real.”

  Me: “Oh.”

  Moving on to the next case, I see some wrinkly typewriter paper:

  April is the cruelest month, breeding

  Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

  Memory and desire, stirring

  Dull roots with spring rain.

  And I think, Yeah, preach, brother. Life used to be beautiful, and now it sucks. What’s the use of stuff growing if it’s going to die? And I wonder how this Eliot guy got it so right. But then, the thing about living through the apocalypse is that everything, like, means something. It’s like when you get dumped, and suddenly every song on the radio is, coincidentally, about you and your stupid breakup.

  I think about cracking open the case and snagging the papers for Jefferson. He likes long, purposely obscure poems. But it feels wrong, even if the people who put it there are dead.

  Peter: “Wow, I’ve always wanted my own copy of the Gutenberg Bible.” He’s looking at a heavy book on a stand.

  Me: “That’s the book in the painting upstairs.”

  Peter: “Could be worth something on eBay.”

  We come to the wall at the end, and I see a little cluster of toys in a decorated box.

  I recognize them.

  I reach out for Peter’s hand. “What?” he says, then he seems to understand.

  But he can’t really. He didn’t spend a whole year reading the books to Charlie.

  Charlie, my little brother, my little monkey, tucked up in his Lightning McQueen pajamas, warm from the bath, his skin smelling like ripe fruit. His round forehead with a tiny splotched scar from when he ran into the coffee table; his little fingers traveling up and down my back of their own accord as I read him stories from the Hundred Acre Wood. His eyes
following the words but not knowing them.

  He likes to learn, but he’s not sure he wants to read, because he’s worried I’ll stop reading to him. He’s afraid of being alone at night, and he asks for “advice on how to get to sleep.” So sometimes I slip into his little bed, infested with stuffed animals and smelling of innocence. His cheeks are pillowy and new. He holds on to me like a drowning sailor and asks silly questions until he starts to drowse.

  I tilt the goggles up on my head and adjust to the real light coming from Peter’s headlamp. In the case, there is a half circle of stuffed animals, scrubby and matted and loved into threadbareness. Pooh, Eeyore, Tigger, Piglet. The originals. Somebody once told me they were here, but I forgot.

  And I am slipping away, washed into the past. Full-throttle hugs with sprinting run-ups. Tickles and kisses and ordinary fears. I want him back. I want to give up and join him in the big dark, find him there and keep him safe.

  Peter: “Come on.” He pulls me away.

  Me: “Why?”

  Peter: “Our friends need us.”

  I wipe my eyes and fit the goggles back into the sockets.

  After another half hour of feeling our way around in the dark, we find a door marked SOUTH STACKS. Behind it, there’s a staircase leading down.

  Below, we discover a whole floor of nothing but metal bookshelves, extending city blocks in either direction. Millions of books, everything anyone ever knew.

  Me: “This reminds me of Resident Evil.”

  Peter: “Great. I’m in a video game.”

  Me (for about the thousandth time): “Brainbox?” Nothing.

  Then some scuttling.

  Peter: “Did you hear that?”

  Me: “No. Yes. Unfortunately.”

  Me: “Jefferson? Where are you? Over.” I hear a squawk, with no distinct words.

  Then things are quiet again, and a search of the entire floor shows us nothing—except for another set of stairs, leading down to an identical floor, with more long canyons of bookshelves.

  We’re on our fourth—maybe fifth—floor of shelves when the scuttling starts up again.

  Peter: “Fuck.”

  Me: “Should we get out of here?”

  Peter: “Brainbox! Stop fucking around, man!”

  Scuttling from behind us.