Jo Treggiari: Ashes, Ashes

“So what’s so special—” she began, and then she caught her breath. They were above the fog bank. Below it to the west lay the scrubby wasteland, the mudflats, the salt marsh, and just beyond, the vast waters of the Hudson Sea. To the south, under the low-slung moon, on a narrow wedge of rock and soil were the toppled skyscrapers—row upon row of fallen dominoes—and the ridges of pulverized concrete and steel girders like jagged, broken teeth. Such a strange skyline now, full of odd angles and deep chasms with no symmetry; it no longer seemed like something built by humans. The new wooden structures that bristled from every area of high ground looked like they would blow over in a stiff breeze. And to the east, Lake Harlem took the shape of a bulging Christmas stocking, the misshapen toe cupping the southernmost part of the promontory they perched above.

Lucy’s rib cage felt suddenly too small for her lungs. The devastation was overpowering seen at this distance. An entire city leveled. Some structures brought down by the gale force winds and the earthquakes, others by friendly bombing. And buried deep within the mortar and brick and sheets of steel were millions of people who had sickened and died in a matter of hours, many dropping where they stood in the first and second waves of the plague.

“They’re like giant gravestones.”

“Easy to forget living out here, I bet,” Aidan said.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I had begun to forget.” She shifted her weight without thinking and grabbed a branch to steady herself, ignoring the pain as her left hand flexed. In her camp, on her spit of land bordered by mud and water, it had felt as if she lived in a wilderness, when in fact the remnants of her old life were only a few miles away.

He pointed east over the mudflats. “Check it out.”

Lucy could just make out the blurred shape of a landmass in the middle of the lake, a narrow island not more than a few miles long. Just visible against the blue-black sky was a darker silhouette. A tower, strangely shaped—an octagon or hexagon. At the very top blinked a red light.

“What’s that?”

“That’s Roosevelt Island.”

The name stirred a memory in her, but she couldn’t place it.

“That’s where your Sweepers come from. The Compound.”

There was another large, low, rectangular building attached to it. Just the outline was discernible, and it was unlit, but she could tell that it was solid, massive.

“The hospital,” Aidan said.

And suddenly Lucy remembered.

She gripped her knife, feeling a chill creep up her spine. She remembered the dozens of newscasts, the mass hysteria that each one brought. The island was where the smallpox hospital was. In the early days of the plague, notices and warnings had originated from there, but as the epidemic had spread, the status reports had ceased. Anyone with common sense could just look around and see that most of the people they knew and saw every day were sick, no matter what the television might be telling them about vaccine supplies and control. The live footage of calm, white-coated doctors and pretty, smiling nurses had ceased, replaced by pretaped public service announcements, and the hospital had become just another derelict building. The little she knew about the S’ans and the dangers of the world she lived in now had come from those early news reports—a mixture of public service announcement and disinformation. “Stay in your homes. Avoid crowded places. Inform your doctor of any symptoms.” And flashing across the screen 24/7, the plague hotline number to report your infected friends and neighbors. The hazard squads, they were told, patrolled constantly, seeking out pockets of infection, affected birds and animals, and those too sick to get themselves to the hospital. The white vans touring the neighborhoods and the white-suited men became a frequent sight, but they always gave Lucy the creeps. Once the disease took hold, most people had stopped believing that they were getting anything approaching the truth and ignored the reports and the government orders to remain in quarantine. People had left the cities in droves and the sickness had left with them, spreading like a wildfire.

There was something unsettling about the building, Lucy thought, taking a deep breath. In a landscape without any other artificial lighting, the red beacon at the top of the tower seemed like the baleful eye of some giant beast. There must be people inside, but whether they were doctors or government people or squatters, she couldn’t tell.

Aidan grabbed her arm. “But look,” he said, turning her to face north. His face was lit up with excitement. He stood on the highest branch capable of holding his weight. The wind rustled the leaves. Far beyond the Hudson Sea—out where, Lucy knew from childhood Sunday drives with her family, there had once been farmland and apple stands, cows and pumpkin patches and the sweet cider donuts Maggie had loved and eaten by the dozen, and where the land was now given over to wilderness—a flickering light had appeared, followed by another farther away, and then another, strung out like shimmering golden beads on a necklace. A crooked line of fires. Aidan’s fingers dug into her arm. She would have pushed him away, but she was afraid of falling.

“Oww,” she said.

He barely took any notice of her.

“There are people out there who don’t have to hide. Who are just… living. That’s where I’m heading someday.”

“So why don’t you go, then? What are you waiting for?” She tried unsuccessfully to keep the sneer out of her voice. He was probably one of those people who didn’t move without someone telling him it was okay.

He looked at her, taking in her expression. He let go of her arm. “Oh, so you’re happy, right? You’re having fun hiding from everyone, playing survivor out here with the dogs, eating frogs and acorns, being cold and wet or hot and itchy? Bathing once every few months?” His voice was scathing. His nose wrinkled, and once again she became aware of the smell wafting from her grimy clothes and her hair, which must resemble a bird’s nest.

Her face reddened.

“I’m not leaving here.”

“The Sweepers will find you sooner or later.”

“I thought they were just looking for diseased people. Or the S’ans?”

Aidan shook his head. “No. Now they’re looking for whoever they can find. And who’s to say the plague won’t come back again? Another wave that’ll take out more survivors? Maybe it’s breeding in the sewers. In the rats. Or in the birds again.”

She pressed her lips together. “Sounds like a good reason to stay away from people.”

“Nothing will get rebuilt without people,” he said.

“ People ”—she put a snotty emphasis on the word—“are the reason we’re in this mess in the first place. Too many people, and most of them are a waste of oxygen.”

She glared at the tree limb, dug her fingers into the cracks in the bark. He snorted. She could just tell without looking that his mouth was twisted in a sneer again. She felt heat flood the back of her neck. What a jerk !

“The waters are rising,” he said. “Every season, they creep a little higher. You can tell by Alice.”

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“The Alice statue. Isn’t that how you keep track of the lake levels?”

“How did you know about that?” She tightened her hold on her knife. “You have been watching me!”

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t own the park, you know. It’s not yours.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, she thought about what he had said.

Alice ! That was the name of the girl sitting on the mushroom. Now that she heard it again she had no idea how she could have forgotten. She’d seen the animated movie, and her mother had read the book to her, stopping when it gave Lucy nightmares about having her head chopped off. There were so many things she had forgotten or blocked out, as if she couldn’t help squashing down all the memories with the ones that hurt still. She stared at the tower. And then at the water, knowing that what Aidan said was true. The rains would come again with staggering ferocity like something out of the Bible; the oceans would swell, devouring the new brittle edges of coastline; rivers would spill over; and the lakes would grow until they swallowed the land. They were due for something big and devastating, she could feel it. Locusts, maybe.