The Immune System, page 23
“Join you? You’re not gonna get anywhere.”
“You’re wrong about that. This is not an impulsive move on my part. We’ve been anticipating this situation. If you join us, we’ve got a shot, we’ve got some leverage.”
“More tools,” I say.
Haifa glances at me, at Kavan, the princess saying, “Can someone please not speak in bloody code so I can participate in this conversation—”
“They’ll run you down, Kavan, no sweat. I don’t like your odds.”
“We have a very effective plan in place.”
“I don’t like your odds,” I repeat. “You’re a bad bet. They’re gonna reach out and touch you, easy. They’re good with that. You’re not a soldier, are you?” Kavan blinks. I grin broad, wolfish. This boy is nervous. Lean forward. “They’ll be coming after you, huh. Oh yes, they will.”
Kavan bobs his well-groomed do. I dig that I get to him.
“You’re gonna see how it feels, Kavan. Real character builder.”
Kavan sighs. “Yes. Well. Technically, I face only court-martial. Which as you’re well aware . . . at this juncture means a firing squad.”
“Yeah. On the spot, like.” I nod, still grinning.
Kavan’s eyes slip to the princess, then back to me quickly. “And honestly? As a physician . . . well, as a moral animal, I feel quite some responsibility. To both of you. For my role here. So yet another reason to present this offer to you.”
I look at Haifa. Something eclipses her face. “Are you the . . . ? Did you . . . ?”
Kavan doesn’t look at her.
“Yeah, he is. Yes, he did,” I say. Think about my gun. Anger collects in my throat like tears, like sand, surprising in its intensity and mass.
Haifa covers her face and lowers her head.
Kavan is wearing a tight expression. “That’s as much as I’ll say. Now, I’ve extended myself to the degree that I’m willing. Regardless of how you feel about me, the situation is what it is.”
The vehicle is coming to a stop. We’re here. We’re home.
“You have a minute. Think it through,” says Kavan.
“So we come with you. Then what?”
Kavan shrugs. “We improvise. We start over. Like we’ve always done.” He smiles tightly at Haifa.
The princess glances my way again.
“Start over with what, you reckon?” I am credulous.
Kavan merely shifts his shoulder.
Christ. Decisions.
Look outside at the library. The low-lying yellow cloud cover obscures its roof. The building appears bruised.
My chest, my heart flood with a sharp sorrow that eclipses any anger.
Consider killing this man. It would be extremely simple. Pop: Kavan. Wham: the driver.
Accomplishing nothing.
Decisions that ain’t really decisions.
Finally, I remove my hat, and shift toward him. “Kavan. I guess this is your loopy version of an apology. For playing the Nazi scientist. Well, hey. Water under the bridge, man.”
He cracks his maw, shuts it.
“Na, that’s enough out of you. Just following orders. I’ve used that stale-ass line myself. Historically it’s been useful, huh. Dig it. You’ve done your thing, you wanna have it all kinds of ways, and now you’re jetting.”
The doctor meets my stare unblinkingly.
“Correct me if I mischaracterize,” I say, then open the door. Take Haifa’s upper arm.
“I just wonder,” says Kavan, his voice hollow. We pause, half in and half out. “After all you’ve been put through, and after all you’ve accomplished . . . if you can still differentiate between right and wrong.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a problem,” I respond, not looking at him. “Come on, Your Highness.”
“Between true sacrifice and love of country, and treason disguised as such. Do you follow, major?”
“Yeah, I fucking follow.”
We’re still halfway out, and Kavan speaks again: “Oh, and major?” He hands me a plastic bag, print on the front, MEDICAL WASTE, the biohazard logo. It contains something metallic, smaller than an old Brit pound coin, but with the same relative thickness and color. Vibes like a hairy watch battery. “For posterity. It’s entirely disabled, so we’d only throw it out.”
Hesitate. Then take the bag warily.
Dr. Kavan sits, his impeccable whites sullied slightly, a swath of reddish brown on one pant leg. The man salutes me. “Thank you for your patriotism, son. Godspeed.”
The doctor holds the salute, which I do not return, and the limousine door is closed on him with a solid thunk.
_________________
Up the marble stairs. Through wet corridors. I steer the princess. We do not speak.
The hidden door in the Map Room. The long descent into the vast chamber, deep beneath my home.
I need to show it to her.
Dual Louis Vuitton steamer trunks—grimy, the fungus and watermarks evidence of their years in the dank subbasement of the library, though the big boxes are structurally sound.
I’ve wrestled the tops open, the generous array of explosives exposed. C-4, various RDX compositions, blocks of TNT. Knew there was a reason I kept this shit hanging around.
Haifa and I look on in respectful silence for a spell. She breaks it with: “Is it true, then. You’re very ill?”
I’m feeling the weight of tens of thousands of books, as yet unsorted. This work needs completion. A successor . . . I never got around to it.
“Is it true?” Haifa repeats quietly.
Back to the moment. Am I sick?
I nod. “Yeah. Yes, I am.” So many bodies.
Though my ability to envision a three-dimensional diorama of the city is all but gone, I can still read a map. Quite a dense dot matrix is created, when I pinpoint the bodies.
On Church Street, between Ann and Liberty, the white man wedged into a support column of the tallest building in the world.
Midblock on 4th Avenue, between 12th and 11th streets.
In a silent hotel suite, in a designer bed, on Mercer Street between Prince and Houston.
Deep in Chinatown, at 165 Hester Street.
In a disused wine cellar, beneath the Chelsea Market on 9th Avenue and 15th Street.
In an old café in Brooklyn, on Manhattan Avenue near Huron.
On a dirt incline at the mouth of Central Park, near 68th Street and Central Park West.
In a ugly high-rise on Columbus Circle, in a two-bedroom apartment.
In a half-flooded traffic tunnel on Park Avenue between 32nd and 41st streets.
In the Conservatory Garden, in great numbers, under a burnt tent.
At the northern entrance to Grand Central Terminal.
In the Bronx, in a housing project known as the Gun Hill Houses.
Too many to acknowledge, too many to name.
Does it matter how many? Does it matter how they got where they are?
Does it matter who and what they were?
And where will they put me?
* * *
A distant helicopter brings me around. Realize what’s happening. Haifa sleeps in my arms.
I’m mourning my implant. Had no idea what it was protecting me from.
This fear. This sadness, that accompanies seeing things as they truly are.
* * *
We’re lying under a table in the Rose Reading Room. I don’t know what time it is. And I don’t care. I am no longer beholden to any System. Haifa’s breathing has changed and I believe she’s awake.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself,” says Haifa.
“You know how this ends.”
A long period passes. I must have nodded off cause I start as Haifa says, “Yeah, I know how this ends.”
Look at her face, free of paint. Blink. It’s too dark. I can see shapes.
Remove my gloves. With my real hand, I trace her scar, raised, ridged. Must’ve been some big staples.
“Where’d you get this, Your Highness?”
It’s light enough to see Haifa’s slight smile, though I can’t make out her eyes.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
I think about that. “No,” I finally say. “I reckon it doesn’t.”
* * *
“Hey,” I say. It must be later. I surmise I’ve slept too.
“What?” she whispers back. “Keep your voice down.”
I nod. “There’s another scenario,” I whisper. Surprised to see we’re now sprawled near the door leading to the subbasement.
“What’s that, major?” she whispers back.
“Dig it. You and me . . . somewhere else. North or south, find some land. Fuck Kavan and his crew. Do it ourselves. Raise that child. Grow food. Live how people live if they’re not . . . here.”
I can’t see her face in the darkness.
Eventually she kisses my cheek. “I think we both know that can’t happen,” she says.
Yeah, I think. But it sure sounded nice.
_________________
Nobody on the senatorial staff is going to believe that I stowed the princess amongst squatting anarchists for her own safety, then went on a shooting rampage across the entire borough, again with her security in mind. Not for one moment.
Nobody will believe that I snatched the princess from the Mercer Hotel, leaving in her place the corpse of another woman, for the sake of the princess’s health.
And yet this is more or less what I tell Tim when I radio over to let them know that I’m coming in from the cold with the princess in tow.
And: that she will only allow herself to be released into the custody of her own family, in the presence of as many of the remaining world players as possible.
“I’ma explain everything, my-nigga-my-mellow,” I tell Tim, laying on the dated ghetto-speak, aware the racial epitaph grates more than I can imagine. “Big misunderstanding, big drama. Shit’s straight up and down now. I’ma stroll over soon, heard? So we good?”
“We’re good,” replies Tim tonelessly.
I sign off, toss the radio aside. Turn and regard my library.
“This is it, yo,” I say under my breath, unconsciously flipping the top on some actual PurellTM from my stash. “Any secrets to reveal,” I say to the vast space, the hundreds of thousands of volumes, “now would be the time.”
But there is only silence, the hum of the generator. I recap the PurellTM: my hands are clean enough.
More and more apparent that I am nothing more than part of the problem.
I have enabled and enforced an agenda that, in an unaltered state, I might have rallied against. The question then would be: can I divorce Howard? A question to which I already know the answer . . .
The heavy stillness of the library broken by approaching footfalls.
Here’s Haifa, in improvised traditional wear fashioned from curtains out of the Map Room, complete with full head covering, though her hair hangs loose for the moment. Those eyes, those eyes. She has lined them with a Sharpie.
I’ve shaved and groomed. Got my suit as clean as possible. Reckon I look as sharp as I’m ever gonna.
Pop a sugar pill, just out of habit, something to suck on. Not out of need. I set the PurellTM down. This I don’t need either.
Now that we’re headed out—it seems so intimate. And momentous. Like prom night. But like way more momentous than that. I can’t conjure an analogy.
Our eyes graze each other for a moment, shift away. I cannot see her expression, of course, but I imagine she’s blushing. In a heady rush, I am overcome by the genius of the head covering.
I get it, y’all. I’m done hating on the full cover-up concept. I get it. Makes everything just that few degrees hotter.
I proffer an arm. “It’s a nice evening. I figured we’d walk.”
Haifa lifts her eyes to meet mine. She adjusts her head cover. Then, ever so gently, raises my face-wear, checking the rubber straps to make sure nothing’s tangled. The princess smoothes it into place across my busted lips and nose. Holds her hands to my face for a moment. Then steps away, toward the exit, toward the stairs.
Be sure to secure you own mask before assisting others.
_________________
As we near the Ark, the lights are just coming on, prismatic through the glistening poison clouds. It’s crazy gorgeous.
“Under different circumstances,” I say, feeling light-headed, “I’d ask if you wanted to grab some dinner.”
Haifa laughs. Looks at her feet. “Cheeky . . .”
My knee seizes up and I slip. Haifa catches me easily.
Thing is, I’m mad clutch down the stretch. Good in a corner. Even if I gotta crawl across the finish, I’m all clutch.
But as I feel Haifa’s musculature . . . strikes me: she’s so much stronger than me.
“Good God. Can you walk?” asks the girl.
Drag my bones back up. Leaning on the lady. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, yeah. Dinner.” I resume. “Shit. Someplace. Someplace real pricey. I never went, but there used to be a joint at the top of the Time Warner . . . Par, par, per . . .”
Haifa squeezes my arm. “Per Se. I never went there either, but it was supposed to be nice, wasn’t it? I always enjoyed that hotel there . . . what, the Mandarin Oriental. The spa, bloody amazing. The view from there . . .”
“Way outta my league. But yeah, it woulda been sweet . . .” I trail off.
Haifa lifts her peepers to me. “Yes. That would have been lovely.”
“But here we are.”
She looks away, back at the ground. At this point we fall silent because there remains nothing to be said.
The Ark, the Death Star, the Tower of Power looming.
I lose my footing once more on our quick journey, and again she’s there to intercept.
We’re met by faceless soldiers. Everybody exchanges head-wags, awkward. I’m patted down, swaying. Clean. Soldier approaches Haifa.
“If you disgrace me with your touch, I will have you eviscerated,” she says calmly, and catches my elbow.
Soldier blinks. Fair enough. Backs off.
Haifa stabilizes me. Apparently I keep falling down, nearly.
Stay clutch, Decimal. I’m so clutch.
Radio crackle.
“Coming up. Coming up,” mumbles the dude on my right.
Herded into that ungodly lift, for which I no longer feel apprehension. Concerned they’d kill us before we got upstairs, but that’s looking less likely.
And now, that Wild West bell dings dusty at the 101st floor. Haifa grips my sleeve, hard this time.
Into the Star Chamber.
Incredibly they’re all there, but I barely see them, the shot-callers and string-pullers, the Secret Chiefs, the Illuminati, the world government, Arab garb, congressional blue suits and ties, open-necked shirts, casual wear, and you might take some sort of distant comfort in the variety of skin tones represented—although almost 100 percent male, there’s a level of rainbow diversity that I might wax lengthy upon.
They’re all here. Seems they take this situation seriously.
But I’m looking for Howard’s mug in this crowd.
I guide Haifa forward, or rather we guide each other.
Locate Howard in the crowd, scowly and conk-o-licious. Give him a loving smile. His eyes narrow, but only slightly. He looks drawn, sickly . . . and extremely suspicious.
Tim is to his right. Howard starts to speak to him, stops.
In the final analysis—the only clan in town were the landlords. Money trumps all.
A post–2/14 Monopoly board pops into my mind’s eye, fully formed and deliciously three-dimensional.
I could continue. That would be if I gave a fuck. But the truth is, I just don’t. If ever, certainly not anymore. I’m coming apart, y’all. This body is packing it in, regardless. Closing up shop. Fire sale.
All this ridiculous thrashing, this struggle, this overwhelming compulsion to stay standing.
Someone begins speaking in Arabic.
Haifa takes my hand and everything fades gracefully, slows to a held breath. I make an effort to register the details. She draws me toward her. Embraces this body. Her hair is pine, lavender, and burnt plastic. I exhale, which seems to take hours. This is all according to plan.
Haifa’s giggly. “Does this make me look fat?” she starts, and I hush her with a squeeze to her upper arm.
Soldiers moving forward. Those high-end thugs who have observed the low life long enough to know when a situation’s hinky commence heading for the exits.
But it’s too late for them too.
I push off her head covering, cradle the back of Haifa’s neck in my human palm.
With my Frankenstein paw, I grip the rip cord on her suicide vest, the trigger that will ignite enough C-4 to clear this and any adjacent floors.
These are the tools with which I was entrusted to level my library.
“Are you sure?” I say into her hair.
She nods and whispers, “God is great,” hot on my ear.
Last thing I observe as I pull the cord is that the sand is gone entirely, and my throat is clear, relaxed, open.
So as everything ends, I have only gratitude.
Which is far more than I ever deserved.
E-Book Extras
A Look Back: Excerpt from The Dewey Decimal System,
The first installment in the Dewey Decimal Series
More by Nathan Larson
_________________
And I wake, gasping and flailing at the hooded shapes that recede swiftly with my sleep, the report of the gunshot ricocheting off my skull and out into the great hall of the Reading Room.
Always the same dream.
As the sound fades and the hush returns by degrees to that massive chamber, my heart rate slows and indeed I know exactly where I am: the Main Branch of the New York Public Library at the juncture of 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue, in the City of New York.
I can’t relate in exact detail what led me here, but this much I can tell you: I am a man of mixed ethnicity, from the borough of the Bronx. I freelance from time to time for the government of the City of New York. Or at least what’s left of it.
I am, or was, a soldier, in a landscape without features, save for the funnels of sand the wind might kick up, and the occasional cluster of low buildings. In this antispace there were long periods of time where nothing whatsoever occurred, and we were very hot. When shit did happen, it did so very fast, in a flourish of blood and bits of metal and fiberglass. Even so, it all seemed so very half-assed. Hard to take seriously.
