The Trap (21 page)

I do the only thing I have time for, the only thing that matters. I kiss her.

Her eyes widen. Then they close halfway as she kisses back, her lips velvet and sweet and tender.

Then we separate. We take one last gulp of air under the open, naked sky. Together, we duck underwater.

T
HE WORLD UNDERWATER
is hell. Jets of water—arching high into the sky before crashing down—shatter through the swirling ceiling
above us, churning bubbles. A low murmur rumbles through the fountain pool.

It is too dark to see Sissy clearly. She is only a murky form next to me. We half-kneel on the floor, clinging to several propulsion snouts, watchful that the tops of our heads don’t break
the surface. One end of the hollow cylindrical silencer placed in our mouths, the other end poking just out of the water. This is how we breathe. This is how we will survive. For the next eight
hours. The length of time is unbearable; how we will endure, unimaginable.

Thousands pour out of the Convention Center and stampede down the streets. I feel their energy rumble through the water and quake the very foundation of the fountain pool. Their wails and
screams and cries funnel into a collective deep moan that reverberates through the dark water. Several duskers are jostled into the water at the pool’s edge. I see them flail with lashing
arms; then, as the water level passes their jawlines, their joints lock, their bodies suddenly go inert, and they sink to the bottom. A minute later, they float slowly to the surface, quite
drowned. The ripples of water push the floating corpses away from us and keep them thankfully pressed against the rim of the fountain pool.

The rumbling gradually fades. The stampede has moved on, away from the Convention Center, chasing after the horses whose eyes are rolled back, ears tucked flat, froth sputtering out of their
mouths.

Over the next hour, Sissy and I adapt. We hook our feet into curled piping and float parallel to the splattered ceiling. This position’s easier on our bodies, takes the pressure off our
necks. And with other floating, dead bodies in the fountain—albeit around the rim—we don’t really stick out, if we’re even noticed at all in the glare and splash. We link
our bodies by hooking our arms together.

Hours later, the crowds return. When I take a peek, slowly bringing my eyes just over the surface where the splashes are deepest, I see thousands milling about the open area of the Convention
Center. The excitement of the evening’s event palpable, prickling the air. The media out in full force interviewing people, photographers everywhere snapping pictures.

I sink back underwater. We’ll take it one breath at a time, one second at a time. Try not to think about the cold sinking into our bones, or the stretch of hours ahead of us, the eternity
it will be. Our arms hook tighter, her left leg snaking around mine. I close my eyes. The feel of her enfeebled, floating body next to me, her limp hand in mine, is like a silent lash of
accusation.

If only I had taken the shot,
I think.
If only . . .

Then she wouldn’t be trapped in this watery hell. If only I’d put a bullet into Ashley June’s skull as I had vowed. Now, life and heat are draining out of Sissy, now her grip
slackens by the hour.

I stare at the watery ceiling above me. I try to imagine the world past the swirl of froth where the moon and stars float free in the airy skies.

D
AYBREAK CREEPS FORWARD
with agonizing slowness. The waterspouts finally turn off. The swirling, frothy surface quickly gives way to a
windowed stillness. We do not worry about being seen. The floating corpses now drift across the fountain pool and offer us cover under a blanket of death. We watch the sky yield from tar black to
light gray.

When the dawn siren sounds, it is to us the ringing bells of heaven.

Not a minute too soon. Especially for Sissy. Her skin has gone pale and marble cold. For hours now, she’s been trembling almost incessantly. I’ve wrapped my body around hers as best
I could, but my own body is numb with cold. It’s been ice on ice.

But we force ourselves to stay submerged for a few ticks yet. We haven’t suffered in this watery purgatory for hours only to throw it all away by surfacing a few minutes too soon. Finally,
finally, when streaks of dawn rays shoot across the skies and cause the floating bodies to smoke, Sissy and I finally bring our heads, shoulders, chests above water.

Our bodies weigh a ton. The force of gravity seems to have grown tenfold. Sissy leans into me, collapsing.

“Sissy?”

She doesn’t respond. Her body sags and I pick her up. I carry her to the edge of the pool, pushing aside floating corpses. Wisps of smoke twirl up from these drowned bodies, and the
sour-rotten stench of their sun decomposition fills my nostrils. I lay Sissy down on the concrete edge, brush her wet hair from her face.

“Sissy?”

She mumbles incoherently. Her chest arches up and she heaves, face turned to the side. White bile vomits out, turning yellow, then back to white. Eight hours underwater, she’s been holding
it inside all that time.

“Oh, Sissy,” I whisper, stroking her face.

She murmurs, mumbles.

I look about. The glass entrance of the Convention Center is busted wide-open, shards of glass spit out in front. Metal frames and columns inside the lobby twisted out of shape, everything
jutting outward as if by an explosion from within the lobby. The streets are a complete mess. Jackets, broken shades, hats, shoes scattered in every direction. Evidence everywhere of the wreckage
left in the wake of the rampage.

Hazy beams of light slant between skyscrapers, spilling across the empty streets. The only movements are those of unclaimed horses, trotting aimlessly about. Theirs the only sound that punctures
the dawn’s quiet. A pair of horses, still harnessed to a carriage, waiting dutifully at the corner.

Sissy is not doing well. Even after I move her into the sunshine, her skin only grows colder, her body stiffer. I gather clothing strewn on the streets, sweatshirts and pants. Peeling off her
sopping clothes, I flinch when I touch her back. Her skin cold and turgid. I hurry to dress her, my own hands trembling with cold. Her eyelids struggle to open, fluttering.

“Gene,” she murmurs.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We survived. We did it. Gonna take care of you now, okay, Sissy?”

“Epap. Find Epap.” And then her eyelids stop fluttering. She fades into merciful sleep.

I reach into my pocket, take out the TextTrans. Moisture has seeped into it, garbling the screen. I press a few buttons. Nothing. It’s wrecked.
Let it dry,
I think to myself. I
place it next to Sissy in the sun. It may yet be operable once dried.

As with Sissy. Give her sunshine, give her warmth, give her time, and her cold bones may yet arise. Most of all, give her food, nourishment.

“I’ll be right back, Sissy,” I say even though she’s out. Putting a jacket under her head as a pillow, I steal back into the Convention Center. I’m cautious at
first, worried about people who might be sheltering inside from daylight. But rays of sun, pouring through the smashed opening of the glass roof, are streaming through every floor. No one’s
going to be sheltering in here.

But there’s no food here, either, not anymore. All the concession stands and food stalls are little more than mangled frames of metal. Food, whatever is left of it, is smeared onto the
floor and walls, the raw meat already giving off the stench of spoilage. At every level, it’s the same devastation. And everywhere I go, on every floor, I call out for Epap.

Only silence returns my cries.

Up in the luxury suites, I stare down into the arena, beams of sunlight falling on the twisted seat backs and ripped flooring. Nothing moves. I briefly stop by the Palace suite and retrieve my
backpack. I didn’t think it’d still be there, but it’s right where I left it under the sofa. The handguns clink together when I sling the backpack over my shoulder.

I head back outside. The sun is higher and stronger now, stippling the surface of the water. Sissy is still lying where I left her. I feel a pang of guilt for leaving her but I know I’m
only doing what’s necessary. We need food. I’m about to rush headlong into another building when I stop. I realize something unsettling. Unlike the Convention Center with sunlight
pouring inside, these buildings are dark within, possible sanctuaries for the many thousands who, roaming the streets all night, were likely caught by surprise by the dawn siren.

And not just the buildings on this street. But, with so many thousands roaming the streets last night, probably every building in the business district is a black cave of stranded sleepers. I
place my hand on the glass of the revolving door in front of me, hesitating. I push forward. The revolving door scoops me up, revolves me inside.

I never leave the inside of the revolving door. As it opens up into the dark lobby, I hear the sleep sounds of many hundreds, their raspy, grating
scrit-scrits,
their gnashing teeth. I
make out the faint cluster of bodies dangling upside down from the lobby ceiling, a colony of stalactites. I stay between glass walls of the revolving door until I am outside again, backing
away.

The buildings around us. They are not sanctuaries of food and recovery. They are fangs and claws jutting up into the sky.

Sissy is murmuring. I pick her up and hold her close, hoping to warm her. I pocket the TextTrans. We can’t stay here. This place offers us nothing. No food, water that is quickly spoiling
with the rot of melted flesh and only temporal safety until nightfall. And there’s no sign of Epap. We need to leave. Sissy will hate me when she comes to, will accuse me of abandoning Epap.
But I have little choice.

As I’m carrying her to the carriage with the two harnessed horses, it dawns on me. I know where to go. A place not so far away where there is safety and sunshine and, most important,
nourishment. I lay her upon the plush velvet seating inside the carriage and tuck her snugly beneath a soft carriage blanket. Then I’m checking the harnesses, securing the horse collars and
traces before grabbing the reins. One more wishful look into the lobby for Epap, then I snap the reins. The horses, perhaps glad for direction and order after the night’s pandemonium, canter,
then gallop, obediently away.

A
LITTLE LESS
than an hour later, the metropolis far behind us, I sight the patch of soft green fuzz dotted with bright colorful spots. The
fruit orchard. Bursting with an abundance of fruit, more than I can ever remember. I snap the reins, urging more speed into the horses.

I pull the carriage right up to the nearest tree, stumble off the seat. The horses, needing no prodding, are already grabbing for low-hanging fruit, their lips puckered and grasping. I join
them, my hands desperate and clumsy. I ram the fruit whole into my mouth, skin and all.

A spell of dizziness hits me. It’s the whiplash between the extremities of frigid water and now desert sun. I lie down, chewing and swallowing. The juice flows down my parched throat, silk
on sandpaper, slaking my thirst. After even a few sips of the juice, I begin to feel revived. I chew more, working my jaws, reducing the fruit into a pulp.

I rise on shaky legs, pluck some fruit for Sissy. When I open the carriage door, I find her still tucked firmly beneath the carriage blanket. I place my hand over her forehead, the third time
I’ve checked on her this trip. Her skin still cold. I squeeze the fruit, letting the juice drip between her parted lips.

Her mouth half-fills with juice before she reflexively swallows. She sputters, twisting to her side, the juice spraying onto the seat upholstery and down her shirt. She gasps, heaving in air,
then shudders into a collapse. But her tongue licks her lips, tasting the juice.

I squeeze more juice, and this time she takes it in with eager swallows. After a few minutes, her pallor improves, her breathing steadies. I press my forehead against hers—no fever, no
sign of turning. What she is suffering from is utter fatigue, a lack of nourishment, and perhaps hypothermia. All the classic symptoms of turning are thankfully absent.

I carry her out of the carriage, lay her on a plush carpet of grass the sun has warmed. For the next half hour, I work hard, collecting fruit, squeezing them, nourishing both of us as best I
can. I’m squeezing the fourth batch of fruit when my head becomes heavy and my eyes fight to stay open.
How long has it been since I slept?
I am wondering, and then I am laying my
head down on the grass, the softest pillow, and letting the sun soak into me, the warmest, coziest blanket.

I wake to the sensation of sweet juice in my mouth. Swallow. It’s wonderful.

“Gene, are you okay?”

It’s Sissy. She’s kneeling over me, her eyes clear and alert.

“I am,” I say, sitting up. The sun is higher in the sky now. Many hours have passed. “How about you?”

She nods. “Okay.”

We gaze at each other. It feels like ages since we looked—
really
looked—at each other. We’ve been side by side all night, holding hands in the murky black water. But
not directly, in full bright color. The feeling is mutual; both our eyes fill with tears of relief. We hug tightly.

“Epap,” she asks, her mouth next to my ear. Except she says it not as a question. There is resignation, there is acceptance, in her voice.

I shake my head. “I looked. But I didn’t see him. I’m sorry, Sissy.”

She stands up on wobbly legs, stares at the distant skyscrapers of the metropolis. “Does it feel like he’s gone? To you, Gene, does it feel like he’s dead?”

I stand up, put my hand on her shoulder. “To the very end, he helped us.” She turns her head to me, surprised. “He tried to warn us. Through the TextTrans. He told us it was a
trap, that we should get away.”

“He was there?”

“He must have been. He knew the layout of the Convention Center, seemed to know where I was.”