Pasha Malla - People Park

Her eyes were distant, those of a war orphan in some televised campaign. Who was this girl, this ghost of a child who drifted through the life her parents laid out for her? A stranger. She gazed through him, past him. Kellogg shivered.

People were climbing up from the flood to join them on the balcony and those of the adjacent apartments, a Helper — Dack , his beard wilty and dripping — among them. Dack knocked, then shouldered the apartment door open and ushered everyone inside.

Let’θ go, Dack lisped. Water’θ riθing. Get to the roof. We’ll radio a pickup.

While people squeezed past, Elsie-Anne stared dreamily into the floodwaters.

Annie, said Kellogg, come on, it’s flooding, we’ve got to go.

Not flooding, Dad, she said with a canny smile. It’s sinking. The city’s sinking.

Θome kid you got there, fella, Dack told Kellogg, and disappeared into the building.

SAM WAS AMONG the poplars, branches scrabbled the underside of his door-raft. The light was deepening. Soon it would be night, soon he’d enter the south side of Lakeview Homes, and as he paddled he thought of Adine, waiting for him in the living room, there’d be no one home but the two of them and whatever was on TV. Okay Adine, he said aloud, I’m coming, the work’s almost over and we’ll be together soon okay.

IGNORING THE WATER seeping now up to its edges, still more people headed down into the park. From the top of the Slipway Debbie surveyed the thousands gathered before the gazebo, assembling as they had for Raven’s arrival and illustration. A tepid Ra- ven chant rose and died listlessly. Gone was the anticipation, a muted dread hung heavy in the air, when they called his name it was only in vain and despairing attempts to summon him.

Up the Slipway a couple was dragging a paddleboat purloined from the boathouse, two kids in tow. They reached Parkside West, pushed it into the water, the kids got inside, while the man and woman rolled their pants to their knees. They looked like people Debbie might know, friends of friends, maybe they’d met at a potluck or some such thing. Her mind riffled through a catalogue of names and faces: nothing, they were no one she knew. Right now, it seemed she’d never known anyone.

Look at them, said the woman to her husband. Don’t they know he’s not coming?

He’s not coming! he hollered.

Another family turned and regarded this man bitterly, then kept heading down.

Fuggin appleheads, said the husband. As if this is magic, as if some clown in a sweatsuit can fix it with a wave of his whip. No one’s going to save you! This is real .

Hey, we can make room, said his wife, if you want to come across with us.

Debbie realized she was being spoken to. I’m sorry, she said. Across?

To the mainland.

The strangers’ faces were tired but kind.

You can’t stay here, said the husband. You’ve got to get out while you can.

This — while you can — was chilling: it inferred a time when Debbie, or anyone else, wouldn’t be able to. .

Thanks, she said, but I need to find someone first.

Godspeed, said the wife, and her family joined the brigade crossing the Narrows.

Though dusk was descending the streetlamps remained blankfaced — no power, no power anywhere in the city. The NFLM no longer seemed to be checking ID, in fact no Helpers were visible down in the park at all. Meanwhile the flood had discovered fissures in the Slipway and descended in thin dark gunnels, fed Crocker Pond, Debbie watched it bloat and threaten its banks. .

A hand settled on her shoulder, her heart skipped: such timing, it had to be Adine. But this woman looked haggard and shabby, grey wilted hair like the fronds of a dying plant. Debbie, said this person.

It was Pearl. Or some phantom of her, wild-eyed and waving a book. I have to get down there, I figured it out, it’s called trunking. Situation Ten: Abduction, Deb. That’s where Gip is. He trunked. That’s why he’s gone and —

Pearly? Sorry, I’m not following you. What’s going on?

I need to get down there, she said, gesturing anxiously at the gazebo.

Hey, I don’t know, it might make sense to try to leave —

No, not without Gip. I have to find him. She tapped the book’s cover. It’s all in here, Deb. It’s called trunking, I know how to do it now, I can find him. . Her voice faded. My daughter’s gone, my husband’s gone, said Pearl. Gip’s all I’ve got left. I need to find him. What about you, Deb? Who are you looking for?

Debbie looked around wildly. All those nameless faces spilled grimly past. Wait, she said, focusing again on Pearl. What do you mean, gone ?

Gone, gone, gone. She stepped into the water streaming heartily down the Slipway. Bye, Deb.

Dragging her bum leg along like a dead branch, Pearl disappeared into the swarm tumbling into the common from all sides, some with boxes and bags of belongings, most empty-handed, each face pasted with dazed grief that had yet to sink soulward. High above People Park circled a dozen newscopters shooting footage. Did their viewers wonder who all these people were? Debbie doubted it: this was likely only thrilling, a good show on TV.

ROM MIDWAY up the rope ladder Wagstaffe pointed his camera down at Griggs, who lingered stubbornly in the Thundercloud, flouting his harness sheared in half, walkie-talkie in hand. High above, Noodles was pulled aboard, then Magurk.

Wagstaffe hollered something lost in the helicopter’s roaring.

Griggs shook his head dolefully. Far below the Institute’s swimteam, in matching bathing caps and trunks, converged upon Reed’s skiff. Walters yanked the ripcord, the motor coughed but wouldn’t start, Reed took up the chainsaw with which he’d freed the HG’s and wielded it at the students closing in.

Wagstaffe gestured frantically: Come on! Come on!

Again Griggs shook his head.

The chopper dipped, the ladder swung, Wagstaffe scrambled, caught himself but dropped the camera. It tumbled past Griggs, three hundred feet down, knocked the chainsaw from Reed’s hands, plopped into the water and sank. Reed cast an incredulous look at the sky, Griggs followed it: Wagstaffe and the ladder were pulled aboard, the hatch closed, and the helicopter lifted and wheeled away over the lake.

Back down below, the swimteam, emboldened, were once again on the offensive. Just as they seized upon the skiff its motor whined to life and the two men absconded into the Narrows. The swimmers treaded water in a sharky shoal. And their attention shifted to the top of the Wheel, at the lone figure sitting up there, safe and dry.

Griggs spoke into his radio: How are things going, Dack?

Lotθ of people up top of Laing Towerθ. Θomeone’θ coming? We heard the ferry θank —

Sit tight, Dack, have faith. Someone will come. Remember: Silentium. Logica. Securitatem. Prudentia. Griggs switched frequencies. Pea?

Pea here. Still waiting on the roof, water’s coming up. . What’s this about the ferry?

Griggs repeated his advice, changed channels, checked in with Bean — no signal. The common was an inky muck seething with people, from all sides the water chugged steadily in. He changed channels, repeating the four pillars to himself, while the angry swimmers collected at the Thunder Wheel’s base.

Diamond-Wood answered: Yes?

And where are you?

With the Mayor.

And how’s she?