People Park (39 page)

He’d left Gip with the strange man, Olpert’s housemate, was he a kidnapper? A terrible, dangerous mistake: it reminded him of a riddle from his childhood, how to cross a river with a boat that fit two and not three among a falcon, chickadee, and sack of seed, the goal was to have nothing eaten, he’d been first in his class to solve it, Katie Sharpe had been impressed — where now were those smarts? He’d spent too much time browsing magazines and living indoors and going pale, everything about him had paled.

But here he was at the Ferryport, and Sam and Gip were waiting.
The water made suckling noises against the walkway’s underside. The boy waved.

He keeps saying he has to finish his work, Gip said, but
I’m
the one. Raven chose
me.

Great, said Olpert. Listen, Sam, I’ve got the door from your wardrobe, we’ll use it as a raft to get across the Cove. We’ll just hold on and kick. And, Gip, you’ll ride it, okay?

But I’m the one, right? said Gip. Can you tell him?

Sure, said Olpert. Sam, he’s the one.

I just want to finish the work okay, said Sam, and patted the
TV
remote in his pocket.

Okay, said Olpert, and slid into the water.

Perint’s Cove was the colour of steel. Across it the Islet flotilla reached Lakeview Campground, the lake so high they boated right into the trees.

I can’t really swim, said Gip.

You don’t need to swim, you’re going on this raft.

That’s not a raft. It’s a door.

It used to be a door. Now it’s a raft.

Olpert stood nipple-deep in the flood. He realized his Citypass lanyard had come off at some point and disappeared into all that water. Past him flowed debris, each cluster telling a little story. Here was a ruined party: balloons, streamers, a slice of cake topping a paper plate — and plastic bags by the dozens.

Gip, said Olpert, climb down, get on the door.

The boy swung over the railing and dangled a hesitant foot. Just step down, Olpert said, steadying the door, I’m right here. Gip said, Sure? and Olpert said, Sure, and the boy dropped, landed on his knees on the door, which wobbled but didn’t tip, then flattened onto his stomach, knapsack riding his back. I’m on it, he said.

Sam, come down, said Olpert. This is the only way across. If you stay you’ll drown.

I can’t swim, he said.

It’s not swimming, you just have to kick.

Sam picked at his facial wound, sniffed what smeared his ducktaped fingers. A pause. And with a shrug folded over the railing and flopped into the water below. The door nearly capsized, Gip clung to its edges, and when Sam surfaced his blindfold had gone askew.

Olpert pulled the wet rag over those dead pink eyes and placed Sam’s hand on the door’s handle. Next he whisked a Bargain Zoom bag through the air, tied it swiftly: an inflated bladder. Hold this with your other hand, he said, passing it to Sam, then made a similar float for himself and moved to the door’s opposite side.

We’re going to cross now, said Olpert. Sam, kick. Gip, lie there and hold on. Okay?

The current carried them briskly into the Cove. Gip sprawled facedown, white-knuckling the door’s edges, while Sam and Olpert paddled. The temperature of the water plummeted. Sam, yelled Olpert, keep kicking! We’ll stay warm if we keep moving. And though with every swell and dip the raft pitched and icy water washed over the sides, the waves felt to Olpert like hands, passing them shoreward all the way to the city.

IV

HE FATHER-DAUGHTER
Poole
duo was escorted first to Lakeside Campground to gather their luggage (the minivan could be collected, they were told, upon the bridge’s
. . .
rematerialization), then down into People Park. The previous day’s snowfall had melted into a brown gravy, Kellogg and Elsie-Anne found a dry knoll behind the gazebo where they sat upon their bags. But as more evacuees arrived they were forced to stand, penned in by Helpers stalking the periphery like bored shepherds.

A man with a camera asked to take Kellogg and Elsie-Anne’s
picture, they complied, he furnished a business card:
Ruben
Martinez, Photographer
. He’d come here solo, he told them — Kellogg pulled his daughter a little closer — and had been staying at the Grand Saloon until getting tossed that morning. Two of those guys in khaki came to my room and were all, You’re going home, and I was all, But I’ve paid for tonight, and they were all, All nonresidents are going home, get your stuff together, and that was it, and here I am, said Martinez brightly, as though being interviewed for
TV
.

My son went missing, my wife’s looking for him, Kellogg said, and held up his wedding band as some sort of proof.

Martinez nodded. I mean, as far as a refund goes I don’t really care. I can afford it. But this is supposed to be my vacation, know what I mean? Those permits were a hassle!

This was supposed to be our vacation too, said Kellogg. And then my kid goes missing! I mean, he’s got to be somewhere, right? My wife’s from here, she’ll find him. I’m not worried about it. Though we did have to abandon our car too
. . .

Thing is I can’t even say for sure if they credited my account. I mean, not that I care. Money’s just paper. But it’s annoying, know what I mean?

Yeah, said Kellogg, fanning himself. Getting hot out here, huh?

I got some great snaps on Friday night. Pretty spectacular, that stuff with the bridge.

That was my son up there.

Where?

Onstage. With Raven? Gip Poole, our little guy! He’s the one missing though.

So was he in on it?

No, no.

But you said he disappeared too.

What?

Like the magician, like the bridge.

Wait. A bead of sweat scurried down Kellogg’s spine. No, wait.

From the gazebo came a siren: a Helper stood atop Raven’s trunk with a megaphone. You’re all going home soon, he shouted, the amplification tinny and weird. We’ve got water for everyone, we — his words were lost in a honk of feedback.

Six people clapped wanly.

The morning’s placid obedience was souring, the air prickled and itched.

Martinez knelt to shoot a pair of Helpers, was bumped from behind mid-photo, and, teeth bared, wheeled at his aggressor — a young mum wearing a baby in a sling. To Kellogg he said, Soon as people get a little stressed they start acting like animals. Though what’s the order here? There’s no line! When it’s time to leave, who goes first?

Kellogg didn’t know.

Helpers moved through the crowd handing out bottled water. Kellogg took two and said, Hiya, any idea what’s going on? You’ll
be going home soon, recited the Helper, and turned away. Kellogg
gave Elsie-Anne one bottle, the other he splashed onto his face, the water was lukewarm and brackish, bloodlike. Martinez sipped his gloomily. No point holding a spot if there’s no line, he said, hoisting his camera, gonna go get some snaps.

He disappeared into the crowd.

The air had thickened into a clammy goo, in it limbs jellied and even breathing took effort. Kellogg looked around: every face shared the same droopy look. Across the pond he recognized the young couple from the campground. Annie, look, there’s shade with those folks by the boathouse, I know them, Kellogg said. He took his daughter’s hand, shouldered her bag, and wheeled his suitcase at the closest thing he had to friends.

Hi, we met yesterday? At the campground? We were the next site over.

We’re not even supposed to be here, said the boy.

It’s because we were camping with tourists, no offence. And
we’re not residents, is what they’re saying, even though we fuggin
live here.

But all we have is Institute
ID
. And since we’re not from here originally —

They consider us nonresidents, the fuggin appleheads.

They’ll make us leave and once things’re back to normal we’ll just come back.

It’s so senseless.

Fuggin senseless is what it is.

Kellogg nodded.

You heard about the flooding?

We were just at the Campground, said Kellogg, to get our bags, the beach is underwater but —

Not just there, said the girl. At the Institute too. The lake’s coming up.

Also they’re saying there are riots in the Zone, said the boy. His eyes glinted with — what? arousal? People are attacking people and looting. So we hear.

The megaphone wailed: Hi, okay, listen up, we’re about set to begin this
. . .
evacuation, or I mean extradition — the Helper lowered the megaphone. The crowd waited. Finally he spoke: Your free trip home.

Since the Slipway would be the evacuees’ route out of the park, those assembled at its base were deemed the front of the line. Complaints — But I’ve been here since dawn, etc. — petered into subdued grumbling, it was too muggy to put up much of a fight. From the Slipway the crowd wrapped around the gazebo, across the common to the far side of Crocker Pond, where Kellogg and Elsie-Anne found themselves at the end of the line.

Kellogg folded a sweat-sodden braid behind his daughter’s ear. His own clothes had gone heavy and damp. The air felt tenser, somehow jagged, now that the dull throb of waiting had sharpened into anticipation.

Soon, Annie, said Kellogg, taking her hand. Mummy’ll find Gip and we’ll all be home.

Elsie-Anne blinked. In Viperville only the baby eels survived. All the grown-ups died.

Is that what Familiar says? Is he back?

Not yet, she said. But he’s coming.

From behind them rose a sudden commotion.

The photographer, Ruben Martinez, had been pulled aside by two Helpers, one muttonchopped and grim, the other smiling amiably. While his sideburned partner exhaled hot oxen snorts and smeared a fist into his palm, the friendly one told Martinez, No photos allowed, sorry, we’re going to have to take that!

As if disqualifying a recent medallist, the Helper de-garlanded
him of his camera. Then he was escorted up the Slipway, to streetlevel
, out of sight. A family of four assumed the free spot in line.

Where are they taking that man? Kellogg asked the students.

Fuggin appleheads, said the girl. Shame!

Shame, agreed the boy.

Kellogg gazed out over the crowd marshalled into rows. The sun pounded the common. He felt dizzy and delirious, and at first thought he was hallucinating when, high above everything on the northeastern corner of the park, the Thunder Wheel began to turn. He couldn’t see from that distance, of course, but packed snug into a Thundercloud was the foursome of Griggs, Noodles, Magurk, and Wagstaffe.

The former three men sat buttoned into pockets of silence, while Wagstaffe videoed the scene and in his narrator’s brogue announced what he saw: Flooding on all sides of the city! Water really coming up! Nonresident evacuation’s underway —

Wagstaffe, said Magurk, shut the fug up, will you?

No need to get all dooshy, said Wagstaffe, just because you’re scared of heights.

Reaching the Wheel’s apex the Thundercloud wobbled to a stop.

Griggs’ walkie-talkie fizzed: It’s Bean. First trains arriving into Parkside West.

Good lookin out, said Griggs. He surveyed the island’s northern shore: the Narrows swelled halfway up the cliffs. Westward along Topside Drive, where the land dipped to meet the water, waves spilled into the opening of Lowell Canal. The torpid olive-coloured strip cut south alongside the Zone and jagged west between Upper and Lower Olde Towne to dump its sludgy effluent into Kidd’s Harbour. And with the Narrows flooding one end and the lake the other, the Canal was rising.

If it overflows it will go downhill, said Griggs. Mount Mustela and the Mews will be fine. The Zone though — not so much.

Is that our problem? said Magurk, glanced down, and retreated, yellowing.

Well, said Griggs, do we have any idea what’s in that water?

Actually, said Wagstaffe, lowering his camera, we do. Isa did a special on it.

And?

Oh, awful things. Lots of awful things.

I’m going to barf, said Magurk.

Well for Gregory’s sake do it over the side, said Griggs.

Noodles seemed oblivious to all this. With a blank expression, he watched the sky.

Wagstaffe shot the park, the crowd a patchwork quilt fringed with khaki. And so the crowd readies, he said, and the evacuation begins!

Don’t call it that, said Griggs, and struck up his walkie-talkie: Bean, start moving the nonresidents to Parkside West. Then he switched channels: Is the ferry in Whitehall?

Ferry’s on its way, came a reply.

Everything’s proceeding according to plan, narrated Wagstaffe.

Except finding fuggin Raven, said Magurk, his head between his knees.

Noodles gestured at the horizon, above which floated a handful of black specks.

Your people? said Griggs.

From across the water, said Noodles softly.

Choppers, bellowed Wagstaffe, zooming in. Exciting!

Here to help? said Griggs.

Noodles didn’t nod.

Then?

To watch, said Noodles, with a twitch of his lips just short of a smile.

SOPPING AND SHIVERING,
Olpert and Sam bumped the door up
against the bottom of the 72 Steps. Waist-deep in the encroaching
lake, Olpert lifted Gip onto the bottom stair, guided Sam alongside, and there the three of them huddled, the lakebreeze a swarm of prickling insects, waves slopping at their feet.

The lake had swallowed Budai Beach, Lakeside Drive was three feet underwater: out in Perint’s Cove the Islet, reduced to peaked roofs and scraggly treetops, resembled some strange forested tanker run aground on its way to port.

Despite the sun Gip’s teeth chattered, Olpert tucked him under an arm. With a purple, trembling finger he pointed to the top of the bluffs. Let’s go, he said.

Up they went, slowly. Halfway Sam stopped, palms pressed to his eyes.

Hey, said Olpert, come on, we’re taking you to hospital. Get up. You can’t stay here.

Sam knelt, tucked his head into his chest. This is as far as I can go okay, he said.

Down below waves slung the armoire’s door against the bluffs. The water was rising.

Go, said Sam. I’ll be okay.

You’ll be okay?

I’ll be okay. But this isn’t the work. The work’s different.

Right, said Olpert, and tucking Gip against him they left Sam behind. Each step stung, his bare feet were swollen and the colour of veins.

I’m so cold, said Gip.

We’ll get out of these clothes, said Olpert, and get furs, they’ll keep us warm —

Fur: his stomach dropped. He felt for his hat — miracle, it was there. Within its folds he found Jessica, an icy nugget, little jaws frozen in a cry of anguish. She’d chewed holes in the wool, evacuated her bowels in a greenish dribble.

Gip said, What’s that.

Jessica.

Is she dead?

Olpert pocketed the hat. Twenty steps down, Sam had gone foetal.

Hey, Olpert yelled, the lake’s coming up, you can’t just lie there. Sam?

Sam didn’t move.

Gip tugged his sleeve. Should we help him?

No, said Olpert, turning. We have to go.

At the top step, Olpert looked back a final time: no sign of anyone. The water sliced the stairs in half, steadily rising.