Ellen Datlow - After - Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia

Her trigger finger twitched. I found her right arm and jerked the AK474 up. A burst went into the air.

She tried to get control of her hands. I yanked her to the side, fired a burst at her crew. One went down screaming; the other backed off. A couple more came out the door of our lair. I turned her their way, fired again, caught one in the face. Then the gun jammed.

I found Regalia’s heart and lungs, tried to tear them out of her body. Her eyes bulged. I moved her legs, ran her to the side of the building, and made her smash her head against the wall until the brains came out. All the time she made strangled noises and danced like a headless bird. When life went out of her, I couldn’t make the body move, and she fell to the ground.

The rest of her crew had come out the door. Dare had her gun out, threatened to kill them. Hassid and Not slammed them around, took back the stuff the crew stole. One that had been shot half crawled away. Another was dead. The boys stared at the bodies. Only Dare knew what I’d done. She made Regalia’s crew drag their dead away with them.

We found Lott inside, where the blast had killed him, wrapped his body in blankets and carried him into the park. We had a shovel and took turns digging it deep so the rats couldn’t get him. We buried the AK474 in another place.

Dare talked a little about how much we loved him. All I could think was I didn’t want to die like that. Even Dare was kind of afraid of me.

We huddled together in the lair, knowing we’d never stay there again. No one slept much, but I sat awake on guard. Almost at dawn I started crying and Dare held me, whispering, “You saved all of us. You’re a hero.”

The next morning, Caravaggio was shooting on the waterfront. The crew and I were there because we had nowhere else to go. I looked for a chance to beg him for a place to stay. Our lair was gone. I felt older than Caravaggio, older than anyone. Rock had left us, Lott was dead, and after what I saw and did the night before, I half wished I was dead too.

Nice, Not, and Hassid dived for fake coins tossed by actors dressed in protective gear. The boys’ hearts weren’t in it. We were zombies. They missed the coins and Caravaggio screamed at them, screamed at Dare and me.

Mai Kin and her handlers hadn’t shown up. Caravaggio yelled at Tagalong, who couldn’t contact them. Everyone said the Peacekeepers weren’t around. On the water, scared passengers were cramming onto the ferries. Copters and planes took off from Liberty Land.

This world of mine was tougher now than it ever had been. Tagalong got definite word that the UN had withdrawn from the city. I said we had nowhere to live and asked him if we could stay at the studio until we found a place. He just sighed and looked at Caravaggio, who was yelling about traitors and ingrates.

I stood out on the seawall and Nice stood with me, rubbed my neck. I had my arm around him for comfort. We heard jets but didn’t see them. Then, over in New Jersey, lights flashed like the sun on a knife blade. Next came explosions, big muffled ones. Caravaggio suddenly shut up. A moment later there was smoke over Liberty Land Stronghold, more flashes.

“Seems like Northeast Command took them out,” someone said softly.

We should have been looking closer to us. I saw the ferries moving fast on the river, trying to scatter, before I heard the copters. Rockets exploded. The seawall slid out from under my feet. Nice got torn away from me. I flew toward a huge wave and hit the water face-first.

It was in my eyes and nose, drowning me. I reached out for Dare, caught other minds. I felt Nice get cut in two. Someone’s legs were crushed. Water was in my mouth and nose. I sank into the filth of the river bottom. I wanted Dare to have her arms around me. Then I was rising, pulled by my hair.

My head broke the surface. Not far away, flames floated on the water. People screamed. Dare hauled me up onto solid ground, pulled the clothes off me. Hassid was there. He washed me off and I let him. They put lotion on me.

Dare held me. She was crying. Nice was gone. They couldn’t find his body. Only when I sat up did I see the gash on Dare’s leg and knew what she risked to save me. She didn’t make a sound when Hassid cleaned and bandaged her wound.

As if he was far away, I heard Caravaggio crying, “When I first came to the city, it was half wrecked but vibrant in its death dance.” I caught images in his brain of destroyed streets with kids in costumes dancing through them. A flickering figure flew into the air, caught a coin in his mouth, bounced off the water. Then there was nothing and I knew Caravaggio was dead.

We went to Tagalong, who stood in tears as Caravaggio got lifted onto the truck. Dare and Not and Hassid were with me. Through Tagalong’s eyes, I saw how sad and ragged we were. Then I showed him what had happened to us and to Regalia, and asked if we could stay at the studio. Scared but impressed, he nodded.

“He loved the chimeras,” Tagalong said a little later when we brought Caravaggio’s body home. More of them than I thought were still alive waited outside the studio. Ursus was there and the bird woman who was in charge of the door, a pony and the cat and the man who was part fox, a cat man and cat woman, Silky the seal, big dogs, a goat, and the owl. I didn’t even know what some of the others were. They howled and moaned when they saw the corpse.

They laid Caravaggio out in the big front room and dressed him like a king in silks and furs. Flowers appeared and candles lighted the place. A hundred and more people came from the neighborhood; a few even came from farther away, risking the streets to see him one last time.

Some brought food. The people in the kitchen cooked more.

Tagalong gave the four of us a large enough room with futons on the floor. We piled them together, lay on them, held each other and cried. Dare made plans to go next day and find Nice’s body. I didn’t want to think.

The chimeras were chanting when I heard engines outside. Tagalong appeared and told me Depose was there with cars full of her people and wanted to come in. I understood that he wanted me to do something and this was why I was here.

So I stood at a peephole beside the door, watched Depose without her seeing me. “We need to confirm that Caravaggio is dead,” she told the doorkeeper bird, who looked scared. “Various of his associates and backers need to know. And we need to find that film he was making. I don’t want to use force.”

I didn’t need to go inside her to know that she was going to use force, and when she got in here, this place would be looted. I looked back at Caravaggio laid out and the candles and the chimeras.

At the same time I found Depose and showed her what I was seeing. For a second she didn’t understand what had happened. Then Depose realized who was doing this and remembered what she heard that morning about me and Regalia.

Still she hesitated, so I showed her a moment of Regalia and the wall. Depose headed for her car fast, and I let her know that if she wanted the film, she’d need to come alone and bring a lot of gold.

I felt shaky when it was over but I waited for the engine sounds to fade. As I went back to our room, everyone in the studio stood and applauded, and I figured we’d won our place here.

We sat on a mattress and leaned against pillows. “Maybe you should have done her like Regalia,” Dare whispered.

“Maybe,” I told her. “But I didn’t have all the anger and fear like I did with Regalia. And I can’t kill everyone, and Depose can be bought.”

Dare understood and put one arm around me. She cuddled Not, and I held Hussein.

That’s how we were when Tagalong came in with a camera and two women who did stuff with lights. He said he wanted to film me talking about what happened. “We need a hero,” he said. “We’ll call this REAL . We need to advertise you.” And I thought about Caravaggio and Jackie Boy.