Nathaniel Rich - Odds Against Tomorrow

“Fine. But she wanted you to have this.” Jane pulled a crinkled envelope from her back pocket. Mitchell’s name was written on the front in Elsa’s neat, girlish script. The envelope smelled like smoke.

“The letter,” said Mitchell, and his eyes got very wide behind his whiskers.

He tore it open with such force that the envelope fell out of his hand and the breeze carried it skidding toward the edge of the roof. He stepped on the envelope finally, hard, and opened it more carefully. It contained a postcard. It was one of those cheap promotional postcards they gave away for free at restaurant cash registers. This one was from a crappy Korean dive in midtown, Chosan Galbi. Mitchell was looking at the note with disgust. He showed it to Jane. It read “By the time you get this, I’ll be a futurist.” It was in Mitchell’s handwriting, with his signature. Only Elsa had crossed out Mitchell’s name and signed her own.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Mitchell.

Since he seemed to be addressing himself and not Jane, she thought it best not to answer.

* * *

Downstairs, Large Keith had already carried the supplies and the crate of vegetables into the atrium. Mitchell handed Jane the envelope containing his monthly update to his parents and his supplies list for the following month. Jane gave him the Zukors’ care package and the mirror.

“Business good?”

“Business,” said Jane, trying not to laugh, “is quite good.”

“And the recovery?”

“It’s going great, actually. Even some of the subway lines are coming back.”

“I imagine only the old IRT lines, right? And none of the outer boroughs.”

“Yeah. Just the old IRT lines.”

“And the water supply — do you still have boil water advisories?”

“Mm.”

“And I bet the insurance claims aren’t being processed quickly, so you have uninhabited, structurally unsound buildings all over. And the side streets, especially outside of Manhattan, are probably still riddled with cracks and craters and holes.”

“OK, yeah, there’s work to be done. Glad you haven’t lost your powers of divination.”

“I had an idea for you. New slogan.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Future Days: because the future is not quite what it used to be.”

“You still have it,” said Jane, and she smiled as if she meant it.

The sun shifted, and Mitchell seemed to squint.

“It was nice to see you,” he said. His voice got quieter. “Always is.”

She tried to read his expression, but it was impossible behind the tangles of hair. All she could make out with any clarity were his eyes. They were as sharp as ever, like the points of swords.

“Mitchell.”

“Yeah.”

She paused. “Aren’t you lonely?”

Mitchell kicked the gravel. “I’m alone. I’ve been alone for six months. But that’s not the same thing as lonely.”

“There are a lot of people outside who want to meet you.”

“Mm. Are there more?”

“Sorry?”

“More settlers. I mean other than Hank and those two kids — Ronald and Cassie? And that other family from Randall’s. The Motas.”

She had suspected it before; there had been signs, though it seemed too preposterous. But now she was certain: he had no idea. None. He hadn’t left the property for months, at least not during the day, and at night he only sneaked across the street to the marsh, which was hidden from most of the neighborhood. “Can’t you see them?” she said. “From the windows?”

“The windows look out to the marsh. Then the sea.”

“From the roof, then?”

“I just started on the roof this morning.” He lowered his eyes, breaking eye contact. “I guess I haven’t looked down just yet.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe you should.”

They said their goodbyes, and she left the property. She didn’t have time to linger. There was a full staff meeting at the office in three hours, and she had to make the rest of the deliveries. There were David and Andrea with the overbite, Hank Cho, and Ronnie and Cassie. Then there were the Motas, the Wachtels, the Herreras, the Chopras, the Reburns, the Castillos, the Mendozas, the Tildas, Dr. Valentine and his children, Sara Watson with the squint eye, Andy Nguyan, Brian Petersen, Amy Macias, Stuart and Lacey, Sissie and her daughter, Larry Rocha, Dennis and Rodney Archer, the LaGarde brothers, and the camp of runaways, whose names she never remembered except for their leader, the one with the eye tattoos, who went by Lizard, or Zard. Even if she kept chitchat to a minimum and made her rounds as quickly as possible, she would no doubt be delayed by the newest settlers. She had seen them even on the drive over — they were still arriving, more every day. They walked in from Brooklyn and Queens, lugging camping backpacks like mules, ducking under the unmanned police barricades that separated the rest of the city from the Dead Zone. And they were building: hackneyed, unprofessional, ramshackle homes with mismatched walls and askew floors straight out of Dr. Seuss. But the disorderliness seemed welcomed, if not intentional.

The whole place was a mess — a sprawling, chaotic, giddy mess — but for a brief moment, as Large Keith opened the door to the armored limousine and the refrigerated air wafted into her face, it occurred to her that there was something intoxicating about this new way of life in the Flatlands. Their little experiment in self-sufficiency might even end up succeeding. Ticonderoga failed, sure, but hadn’t mankind done it before — started from scratch? And this time it would be easier. They were cheating, after all, with Future Days providing the essentials, and a bit more besides. New nonprofits were chipping in — the Easties, We’re All Mitchell Zukor, New Americans for a New America. For a passing moment, as Jane took one final look at the high entryway of the grand old bank building surmounted by its silly granite eagle, she felt that she would like to live in the Flatlands herself one day. She felt that she wanted to live in the Flatlands rather desperately.

Large Keith slammed the door. The cold darkness of the limousine enclosed her, the seat gave gently beneath her, and her thoughts turned to that afternoon’s meeting. It was an important meeting. They were going to make final hiring decisions for the new class of Cassandras, review the new ad campaign, announce the second quarter earning reports, and set profit goals for the third quarter. A fortune was at stake. She buzzed Keith.

“Ms. Eppler?”

“Let’s move this along,” she said.

“Ms. Eppler? Everything all right back there?”

No, she thought. Everything is not right, not at all.

I am scared .

But she choked back the words.

“I’m fine,” she said at last. “I just need to get back to New York. We don’t have a lot of time.”