Authors: Jordana Frankel
I laugh, but I can’t help wondering what that’d be like, having someone at home worrying about me. The one person wondering where I am is lying in a hospital bed. It’d be nice though.
Maybe.
Nah
. The word
parents
sours in my head almost as soon as I think it. Better off without. Can’t be worrying about any more people dying on me.
“Extra on the grease, just for you,” I say with a short wave, wishing I were telling the truth.
The roof clicks closed and Ter smiles his good-bye and the Omni spins out along the canal. As it disappears into the dull, graying morning I glance at the address, now wrinkled and scrappy:
51 Rough Block and Mad Ave #1A
.
Callum Pace
. He may have lied, but he also saved my sister.
I have to trust in him, for Aven’s sake. Much as I don’t like it.
2:00 A.M., SUNDAY
F
ifty-one Rough Block and Mad Ave.
Prime location, right off the most popular boardwalk east of Central Bay. Prime apartment number, too: 1A. First floor. No walking up any stairs, or across any suspension bridges; sea-level apartments have use of the narrows—planked sidewalks for first-floor tenants. So they don’t step out onto water, and all.
The walk is maze free, as most of the vendors are sleeping. But in a few hours, they’ll all be selling hotcakes and oatmeal. My mouth can practically taste it, I’m so hungry. Thirsty, too. When I see Rough Block, though, I can push aside the wanting.
I turn left into the gutterway, where the only sounds come from the groaning narrows underfoot. At 51, I knock. Loud. I’m not going for quiet. Callum’s probably sleeping, and I want him to hear me.
A few more knocks, but no one comes. I can’t help but examine the padlock.
Maybe he’s not even here
.
The cuffcomm at my wrist reminds me that we don’t have much time—three hours before Chief gets to quad nine. I need to know if Callum can do anything for Aven; otherwise I’m not about to go switching teams. Making enemies with the DI ain’t on my to-do list, but if it’ll help Aven . . .
In which case, Callum won’t mind if I have a look around. Get some answers on my own.
Most apartments use the same standard type of lock, as the original keys for the knobs got lost. First I tug, making sure he hasn’t left it unlocked, which he hasn’t. Not surprised at that; he’s a West Isle boy. Probably thinks the whole of the Ward is crawling with criminals. Which it ain’t. Just
some
of the Ward.
I pull out that paper clip he used for the money and fold it up so that the loops make a T. If he’s as desperate for this information as I think he is, I doubt he’ll hold a little lock picking against me. Not with what I’ve got to tell him.
Then I take off one boot and use the edge to push the steel wire together. Sliding my foot back into the boot, still snug from its earlier dunking, I push the new-and-improved paper clip turned lock pick into the padlock. After some jiggling around, the lock pops open, and I walk right in.
The room is dark. It feels empty. When I flip the light switch, nothing happens—he did say he was trying to stay off the grid. Soon my eyes adjust, and I cross the apartment toward what looks like blackout curtains. I throw them open, letting just enough light from the walk in so that I can see, and I turn around.
The walls . . .
They must be under there somewhere, but I can’t see them. Every inch of space is covered with topographical maps, not just of the city today, but of the city under the water. Manhattan. Pictures, too. From over the years. Black and whites of the skyscrapers, only three of which I recognize. The Empire Clock, the Slant, the Chrysler. Color photos in neons, the buildings lit in ways I’ve never seen. Like electric three-tiered cakes, each frosted in fluorescence. Awful waste of energy. But imagine racing with those lights on. Damn.
It’d be like running at light speed. Intergalactic travel here on Earth. Brainbuzzed with just the idea of it, I scan the rest of the walls, distracted. A photo catches my eye.
It’s me
.
Age thirteen. Scrawny, no build, no muscles. Barely even the beloved ass that follows me around everywhere. The good ole days. Hair wild as ever, though, and the same freckled, dusky skin. Black eyes.
The picture is three years old, taken right before I got netted. Before I offered to work for them and Aven found her way to a sickhouse.
Looking at it feels slimy. Like he’s been watching me. I understand why Callum has this photo—while he was working with the Blues, he must’ve taken it from my file so he’d know who to approach. Far as I know, I’m the only mole in town scouting for fresh. The others, whoever they are, keep tabs on potentially contagious citizens who could be spreading the disease around.
Still. This picture reminds me that Callum’s in this for his own reasons as well.
Looking at it unnerves me, so I tug the picture from its tack and shove it into my boot. He don’t need it anymore, and I want it back.
Where is he?
As I look around, it occurs to me that there isn’t even a bed. There must be another room. I can’t find another door though, with every square inch covered in paper. I step backward—my calf hits something. Something heavy. I feel it tip over with a dull
thump
, and when I spin around, I see a cloth laundry bag open on the floor.
But there aren’t clothes inside.
Articles. Spilling out, everywhere. They’re each enveloped in see-through film, probably for protection. I pick one up, the one that looks the oldest. Through the film I can see the yellowed paper, its edges rippled from water stains. Says it’s from 1940.
MINETTA BROOK GONE FOR GOOD?
No Sign of the Brook in a Decade
The Minetta Brook, which only a decade ago reappeared in lower and mid-Manhattan, seems to have gone underground for good
.
The spring, once called “Devil’s Water” by the natives for its poor taste and foul smell, plagued lower Manhattanites in 1930
.
It is hard to believe that Dutch settlers would have fought over such filth, with other freshwater sources in the vicinity. Originally, though, the Minetta water seemed pure. It was only found to have a sulfuric odor after flowing to the surface, local surveyor Diederick Hoff noted
.
Thankfully, the fountain in the lobby of 33 Washington Square West is no longer plagued, and perhaps we may all say, “good riddance.”
I place the article back in the cloth bag and consider this “Minetta Brook.” Is that what Callum thinks I’ve found? The location is off—that’s not the quadrant he had me survey—but in DI training I did learn there were once whole rivers flowing underground, covering miles. But that was years ago, even before the Wash Out contaminated the reservoirs.
Even if I found the Minetta, it can’t explain what happened to Aven. Or me.
When I touch the gash on my temple, all I feel is the thin raised flesh of a scar—it’s healed entirely.
Aven, meanwhile, is worse.
From a far corner, a door creaks open—that’s gotta be Callum. I need to move, hide, get the hell outta dodge, but all I got time for is stooping behind the worktable.
“I see you!” he shouts, with more force than I would have expected. “I have a gun—show yourself.”
Sure enough, from my vantage under his desk, I see he’s got his finger on the trigger of a semiautomatic and here I am, a sitting pigeon.
I have no choice. Both hands up, I grumble, “Fine,” and back away from his desk. “Hi?” I wave.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, understandably peeved, but he lays the gun on the table.
“Lost in the neighborhood?” I offer. “You
did
give me this.” I wave the envelope corner like it’s a white flag of surrender. “Remember?”
“You don’t just go . . .” he blusters, looking for the right word, “barging into people’s places of residence. That’s quite insane, you know?”
I step in front of the moonlit windowpane. “Sorry. Just thought you’d want to hear from me sooner rather than later.”
“Yes! Yes, of course,” he says, and his face lights up, not hiding his excitement. “I’ll get the extra. . . .” He fumbles with the lock of a drawer hidden away beneath a small table. From it, he pulls out yet another thick white envelope, which he holds in the air for me to take.
I reach for the envelope. “I found a freshwater spring,” I admit. Soon as I hear Callum laugh his disbelief, though, I stop myself from saying more.
What about the Blues?
Working with Callum changes everything. Working with Callum means working
against
the Blues. I’m their mole. Means I keep on getting that monthly paycheck—money Aven and I need now more than ever.
If anyone at the DI finds out I’m working against them, I’ll be at their mercy.
Not a good place to be, as they have none
. Miss Nale’s words echo in my head from years ago, when she told me to keep my immunity a secret.
But
. . . there’s another voice in my head. One that, despite everything, hopes against hope. ’Cause that’s what hope is: belief against the odds. If Callum can cure her . . . really, truly cure her? For good?
It’s a risk worth taking.
I pull back my hand, ignoring the envelope for a moment, and make sure Callum’s looking at me. “Aven. You said you could help Aven.”
After a pause, he says, “Yes . . . I believe I can.”
“You also said you needed a sample.”
“Without it, there’s not much I can do, I’m afraid.”
I glance down to the time on my cuffcomm again. “I don’t have it. Chief Dunn paid me an unexpected visit and I told him what I’d found. He’s headed for the site in three hours with a whole team.”
Callum sits down on the floor, bites at his thumbnail. “I was afraid of that happening,” he mumbles.
“Hey—you’re the one who claimed you were with the DI,” I say.
He just shoots me a look. Thinks for a moment. “We have time though. You could take me there. To the site.”
“Tell me what you can do for Aven—I want to know who you are, and why I should trust you—and then, maybe. Maybe I’ll take you. I’ve got a lot at stake, you know? Been relying on my income from the Blues for quite a while.”
Callum looks down, solemn. “I understand. I do.” He taps his fingers on the table, like he’s weighing options I can only guess at. “But how do I know I can trust you? You work for the DI, after all.”
“I work for whoever can help me help Aven. If that’s you . . .” I shrug.
Callum gestures to a chair. “All right. Take a seat.”
Shaking my head, I lower myself onto the floor instead, and cross my legs. I’m more used to sitting this way. Chairs make me uncomfortable.
“My name—my birth name—is Callum Pace. I was part of the Blues’ Young Scientists Curriculum. . . . You’ve heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“A program headed up by Governor Voss. With the Blight spreading, he needed more doctors, so he created an accelerated program for promising youths. Some of us examined geological surveys, theorizing the locations of underground freshwater. Others though, my group, we were studying the HBNC virus and looking for a cure.”
“Ambitious for a bunch of . . . wait, how old are you?”
“I was seventeen; this was less than a year ago.”
“A little young to have the fate of an entire city’s health resting in your hands, don’t you think?”
It occurs to me that I’m a dragster working for the government, looking for fresh. Not much different. The DI likes hiring them young, I suppose—cheap labor.
Callum waves his hands. “Oh no, we weren’t the only ones working on it. Though I am proud to say that I was doing some of their most promising work,” he says, beaming a bit. “That’s why the higher-ups gave me superior security clearance. I overheard some of the in-house gossip. One scrap was about you—a girl scouting for fresh in the Ward. A couple of times I overheard my boss’s bosses, the chiefs, joking about the governor. How he was hoping that moles like you, who worked for the Blues, would actually find a real, live fountain of youth.” He even says it with a laugh, like he knows how daft it sounds.
I raise one eyebrow even though . . . even though it almost makes sense. Not the youth part, or the part where Aven’s tumor grew back six millimeters in an hour. But my cuts. And earlier in the night, her tumor was almost gone. “And people
believed
him?”
“Well, no . . . That was the point. The search for freshwater was the perfect cover.”
“But you believed him,” I point out.
“I didn’t. Not until this . . .” He bounces, literally
bounces
, over to a small wooden writing desk in the corner and opens a drawer, one that’s hidden underneath the tabletop, using a key from his pocket.
He hands me a small glass vial with no more than a drop of greenish liquid in it. “. . . was given to me. By whom, I don’t know. I found it in my DI locker during my time there—my locked locker, mind you—with this article wrapped around it and ‘Q9’ written on the back.”
I take the vial in one hand and the clipping in the other, careful not to press too hard. The paper is so old, just pushing down will crack it. I hold it up to the light.
New York, Saturday, June 2048
Modern-Day Ponce or Modern-Day Ponzi?
To some, medical student Harlan Voss’s “findings” could be the next step in the biomedical frontier. To others, he is the product of a culture desperate for youth above all else. Twenty-seven-year-old Voss claims to have found the Fountain of Youth, but without the benefit of proof on his side, his discovery has been met with equal shares of skepticism and hope
.
“One man discovered penicillin, did he not?” Mr. Voss asks disbelievers
.
According to the modern Ponce de León, the storm surge that preceded what has come to be known as the “Wash Out” caused tides to run so low, they resurrected the Minetta Spring, which once ran through lower Manhattan
.