Pasha Malla - People Park

With each set of legal guardians or worried spouses moving to the front of the line to ask after their child or partner the Pooles inched closer. After rummaging through his ledger the N — S clerk might say, Yes, we’ve got him/her, at which point two Helpers took off up the escalator and returned minutes later with an exhausted-looking detainee (sometimes two, even three), who were reunited with their family and ushered from the mall — where? Somewhere, with purpose.

Occasionally the reply was: No, sorry, maybe try again later. At this the searchers would either slink away defeated, or stand unmoving with a look of incredulity, or fly into a rage that prompted NFLM interventions: the upset party was escorted down the hall to a special office from which they’d emerge ten minutes later looking not unlike reprimanded children themselves.

Dad, said Elsie-Anne, tugging on Kellogg’s sleeve, I really have to pee .

Upstairs, said Kellogg, that’s where Gip’ll be. See, Pearly?

From the second-floor mezzanine a pair of Helpers observed the proceedings below.

Check it out, guys, we’re moving again. Only one family before us!

A fax machine propped beside the desk came to life, a sheet of paper curled out, lifted, and flapped down upon a pile of ignored memos. A flustered pair of men stormed past, one muttered, Well where the fug else do you think she’d be then? and the clerk called, Next, and the Pooles were up.

Hiya, said Kellogg, and in his friendliest voice explained who they were looking for.

The Helper leafing through the registry paused, inspected Kellogg, scrubbed at his moustache with a knuckle. Come again? You mean the kid who was onstage?

That’s our boy! As you can probably imagine we can’t wait to see him. Quite a star, must have been flummoxed by all the attention. .

The clerk — Reed , said his nametag — eyed Kellogg, forehead scrunched into a show of deliberation. Hang on, he said, and chair-rolled over to a man in an identical moustache kicking unread faxes into a pile. He whispered in this person’s ear, pointed at Kellogg, and the second man waved the Pooles around the desk.

See, Pearly, said Kellogg. These people are reasonable.

Where are your permits? said the second helper — Walters.

See, that’s the problem, he’s got them, said Kellogg. My son, I mean. They’re in his knapsack. Which he might still have! But if he’s here —

Dad? whined Elsie-Anne, and Kellogg told her, Shush.

This your daughter?

Gip Poole’s our son , Kellogg said. He’s the one we’re looking for. But you might have him as Bode. Or Boole, was it, Pearly?

Goode, said Pearl, I think.

What are you talking about, said Walters, crossing his arms.

Reed crossed his arms too.

You guys messed up the permits, said Pearl, and Kellogg leapt in: An easy mistake!

Walters closed the registry. We don’t have him. If we did, we’d know.

We’re also looking for him, said Reed. Your son.

Kellogg cocked his head. Oh?

I have to pee, said Elsie-Anne. Really bad.

You always have to pee, said Kellogg. She always has to pee, he told the Helpers.

Where do you live? said Walters.

They’re not residents, confirmed Reed.

My wife is! Kellogg nudged Pearl. Tell them.

I was born here, she said.

Walters nodded. And your husband? And your child?

We live out of town now.

We’re making arrangements, said Walters, for nonresidents to leave.

But our son , said Kellogg, is still here . We can’t leave!

Well your wife can stay, said Reed. But you and your daughter, without permits —

Do I have to stay? said Pearl.

Of course, said Walters, grinning nicotine-stained teeth. You’re a resident.

Or were, said Reed. And I’d hardly say have to!

Kellogg swatted his daughter’s hand away. Annie, quit tugging my sleeve, okay? We’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute. Can’t you talk to Familiar? How’s he doing?

He’s gone, said Elsie-Anne, for now. Dad, I have to pee .

Oh, said Kellogg. Did Familiar go back to Viperville?

Elsie-Anne’s face contorted, panicked and pained.

Sir, said Reed, we can’t help you.

Our son needs his meds, said Kellogg weakly.

What kind of meds?

The type that without them he’ll definitely have an Episode!

From Elsie-Anne: a feeble whinny. Then she froze. Wetness bloomed upon the front of her dress. Her expression was conflicted: horror, shame, relief. The stain spread, pee streamed down her legs and puddled around her shoes. No one moved — not her parents, not the Helpers — and the sound was gentle, like distant windchimes, the odour sharp and sour amid the non-smell of the airconditioned mall.

GREGORY ETERNITY and Isabella are busy assembling an army — a lot of work! — from the roof of the Galleria. The streets below are full of people cheering and putting their weapons in the air like they don’t care about anything, except fighting for everything they believe in probably.

Something’s coming, bawls Gregory Eternity in a voice that echoes the fire burning inside the spirit of every man, woman, child, and cat in the whole city.

Something alien, supplements Isabella additionally. Something that thinks it’s going to take our city!

Boo, boos the crowd.

Are you with me? To stop it? inquisitively howls Gregory Eternity.

Also me, adds Isabella moreover, thrusting her gun outward in a display of it.

Yeah! enthusiastically shrieks the crowd, drunk with the taste of the attackers’ blood in their collective, gaping, and toothy mouth. And though they can only imagine how this blood might taste, the taste is quite visceral, as though they’ve once before torn open some invader’s throat to feast on the clots of putrid gore that froth forth like the carbonated eruptions from a thousand shaken-up bottles of cider.

It’s really obvious that the people are willing to do anything they can to stop the evil force from taking away everything they believe in. Even risk their lives. Even kill. That is just how much the city means to them.

That is. How much. It means.

Are we all in together now? questioningly bellow Gregory Eternity and Isabella in stereophonic dual tonality.

Yeah, deafeningly responds the crowd in kind.

Then to the shores, thunders Gregory Eternity, for that is where we shall meet them!

OLPERT COULD NOT recall the last time he’d held hands with anyone, let alone a grown man, let alone a strange boy. A classmate’s maybe, buddied up on a fieldtrip as a kid. Had his grandfather ever held his hand? No, it seemed impossible — in fact up sprung a memory of trying to take the old man’s hand in the crowd flooding out of a Maroons game. He’d recoiled and growled, What are we, going steady?

Thirty-some years later, here Olpert was hand in hand with Gip and Sam wading across the Islet. The water had quickly reached halfway up the ground floor of every permanent residence and summerhome and cottage and cabin and beach house. In the deepest spots Olpert wrapped an arm around Gip’s waist and heaved him out of the water, placidly the boy allowed himself to be moved. From the ticket booth to the ferrydock arched a little bridge, now each end disappeared into lakewater, the docks were submerged. Olpert led Sam and Gip up to the walkway’s midpoint, let go of their hands, and said, We’re okay, it’s dry here, we’ll just wait for the ferry across.

We’ll wait here, said Sam. The towel frothed over his eyes, and from the breastpocket of his stolen NFLM shirt protruded the TV remote.