The Ward (2 page)

She sees me hesitate. “It’s not like it hurts. What are you so afraid of?”

The challenge in her voice, it’s enough to make me reconsider. Maybe she’s right. It might be nice. To try.

Arching my neck to face her, I whisper, “Yeah, why not? We could be friends. I’ll be sure to stay alive.”

“Yeah? Really?” she asks, disbelieving. The fool grin is back, and she squeals “thank you” about a half dozen times. “Great, ’cause I like you. It’s going to be fun, Renny. Promise.”

Renny?

Aven disappears through the window and just as I turn away, start the climb down, she pops her head out again.

I pause on the ladder, waiting.

“Good skill!” she calls down in a breathy voice.

Now I’m the one cocking my head. “Skill?”

“It’s the opposite of luck!” With that, she throws me an excited wave, and tosses me a penny, before disappearing again into the dorm.

I like that
, I think, rolling the penny along my fingers.

Good skill.

Atop the roof of the Empire Clock, right where my mechanic told me to meet him before the races, I jump from drainage pipe to drainage pipe. Up here it’s a tangled knot of them, built when the United Metro Islets was part of a state, and the state was part of a country, and everyone was paying money to someone else, and no one liked it.

A heavy wind sucker punches me to the left—I stumble onto the copper-plated rainwater collection panels.
Glad no one’s watching
, I think, kicking my boots against the puke-green metal and looking out at the skyline. Most of the buildings are pretty ugly. But standing tall, like a steel seven-layer cake—the Chrysler.

She’d be fun to race on, for sure.

To pass the time, I try and imagine what the Ward was like pre–Wash Out, before ocean levels rose and contaminated underground fresh. Asphalt roads instead of canals, and none of our boardwalks or suspension bridges mazing through the city. People driving cars. On land, not water. Even traveling underground.

I can’t begin to picture it, though. Everything is too different.

Where is he?

It’s just me and the wind, and the boxy, concrete buildings rising up from the canals. I’m not nervous being up here alone, but I don’t much like waiting around. Ain’t like I’m about to leave, though; it took me nearly six months to hunt this guy down. Benson “Benny” Gates, the only outsider to win at the races. He don’t live in the Ward—a West Isler, born and bred—but he owns a garage on Mad Ave where he hardly works.

No one, not even the Blues, wants to come to the Ward since the Blight got bad.

I look across the Hudson Strait, beyond the Ward to the West Isle, and I scowl. That’s his home, in all its perfect, electric glory. I try not to think less of him for it. Shiny skyscrapers touch the sky, built after the Wash Out for wealthy refugees. Some are even brimming over with light . . . at this hour.

Makes me want to eat my fist. I hate them for it. Who are they to have everything? They can afford black market bottles of Upstate fresh for the price of a kidney. Don’t even have the cancer virus over there. No need to funnel rainwater off
their
rooftops.

And all they did was get born on the right side of the Strait.

Why do we get the short end of the stick?

It ain’t fair.

The clock gongs straight to my brain—I bang my hands against my ears and wait for the eleventh chime, after which Benny Gates will officially be late.

“Renata.”

I spin around.

That’d be him—from across the rooftop, gruff and tough sounding. Benny may have been born on the other side, but his voice belongs here. It’s made of spark plugs and carburetors. He tried like hell to talk me out of racing, told me I was too young to get into it. I wore him down though. Showed up at his garage every day for a week and bugged him till he cried mercy. Finally, he said I had “pluck.”

I spat on his shoe, and he laughed.

“I’ve told you before—the name’s Ren,” I say, short. “Renata sounds like an Isle name. Can’t have my mech calling me by an Isle name. At the races, nothing would brand me worse.”

Benny ignores me, hands clasped behind his back. “How do you feel about a quick test?” he asks, pointing to the clock tower. “You’ll have ten minutes to climb up, then down that tower. No pressure, I’d just like to see how your mind works.” He pauses, then chuckles. “
Some
pressure, perhaps. Who wants to fail their first test, am I correct?”

My throat goes dry; I’m glad I took that swig from Aven’s canteen or I’d be crazy with thirst right now. Maybe I am nervous.

“What happens if I can’t do it?”

“Nothing horrible,” Benny assures me. “Tonight’s race will be a no-go, though. We’d spend the time going over where you went wrong.”

I swallow, and I walk to the tower. I’m racing no matter what. The tower’s no higher than fifteen feet . . .
easy
.

Carefully, my fingers graze the siding, feeling for tiny cracks to dig into. Bits of concrete crumble off, and when I look to my hands, I’m shocked. They’re shaking. . . .

I
don’t
shake.

I lift myself and begin the climb.

I pretend I’m that radioactive spider kid with supergrippy skin from old-time comics. At first it works. But no less than a minute in, the pads of my fingers go tingly and raw. I’m not used to climbing, and everything from my shoulders to my knuckles cramps. My legs have it a little better—they just burn. I keep going, and the feet drop away.

Then I look down.

That’s when I slip—gravity pries my fingers from the cracks. My feet kick against the wall and I suck in air.
Don’t fall, don’t fall
, I tell myself, and I don’t.

A few feet higher, I feel my palms fold against a skinny ledge. Trying not to show how happy I am about that, I elbow myself over till I’m belly down on the overhang. It’s so narrow, half my body dangles off.

Then I curse myself at what I see—

Along the far side of the tower, someone’s stacked a pile of boxes and extra piping. Alls I had to do was climb up, instead of ripping my palms to shreds.

Guess that’s lesson number one: scope around for the best route.

Holding on to the overhang with one palm, I crane my neck and put the lesson to use: Still another six feet to go, with no other route to the top. And then I have to make it down.

“Time?” I call out to Benny.

“Six minutes.”

It’ll take just as long to make it to the top, much less to the top and bottom. Of course, if I’d looked around to start, the climb wouldn’t have taken half as long—I’d have had those boxes to jump on.

I could have used them to help me up the second half, too.

Ugh
, I groan, finally understanding that I actually need those boxes to make the climb in ten minutes.

Which means I have to get them.

I whine, facedown, little shards of concrete digging into my forehead.
Can’t waste any more time
, I remind myself, dropping my legs back over the side. I lower myself down, then let go of the ledge, falling the last few feet.

My feet hit the roof’s copper panels and I hear Benny laugh. Without looking, I growl at him, and rush to the farside of the tower. There, I begin stacking boxes. As they pile up, they lose their balance, so I reach for a long copper beam and prop it against the higher ones. That will keep ’em steady, I hope.

Done
—everything’s in position.

I’m gonna do it, I’m hours away from being a real racer
. I grin to myself and hop onto the first box, then the second, all the way up to the first ledge.

As I hug the tower and step up, the boxes jiggle underneath me, but I keep my foot firm on them. My fingers feel the brick for more cracks, and I keep climbing. When I look up, I see the final ledge. In order to reach it though, I have to lift my foot and let the boxes drop.

On the count of three, I jump. The boxes give me one last boost, and my hand finds the ledge. Then they tumble down, and I’m left hanging here, feet dangling in midair. I kick against the siding; I throw my elbows and shoulders onto the overhang. Knees swinging, teeth gritting, I clamber up the wall.

And then, I’ve made it
—I’m at the top!

I whoop and I holler, punching the sky with both my fists. Remembering that this was only half the test, I look for Benny. “Time?” I call out again.

A moment passes. He doesn’t answer. Once more: “Benny, how much time?”

Still nothing . . .

Then the air starts to shake. Vibrate. Under my feet, the brick shudders.

“Renata!” Benny immediately calls. “Get down . . . Now!”

I don’t have to ask why. It’s the Blues—one of their helis, I’m sure of it. Though I’ve never seen one with my own eyes, everyone knows the warning signs. Somewhere, there’s about to be a raid. Could be a water theft, or maybe a black market drug bust—who knows.

I sit on my butt and swivel around. With my stomach to the wall, I shimmy down and drop the remaining few feet onto the next ledge. There, I repeat the process once more till I hit the ground.

At the bottom, Benny wastes no time—he grabs my elbow, drags me to a corner. Together we duck behind the brick wall that surrounds the rooftop, and wait.

“Why do you think they’re here?” I whisper, watching the dust get kicked up by the angry air. If I strain my ears, I can even hear the chop of propellers. We’ve got a clear view of the Blues’ headquarters on the West Isle from here too, but it’s useless; the heli’s already on our side of the Strait.

My skin gets the prickles.

We see it: one beamer crawling across the horizon. It’s headed for the Ward’s residential district, nicknamed the U ’cause from a bird’s-eye view, the Ward is a big ole horseshoe-shaped island of squat, mostly gray buildings. Once it was called Midtown. Now it’s in the middle of nothing, ’cept for the Hudson Strait.

Benny follows the light with his eyes until it hits the U’s western arm. Shaking his head, he answers, “Not for the races, that’s for sure. Ever since we’ve had a designated ‘racing district,’ they’ve turned a blind eye.”

He nudges me in the elbow, then points to the Ward’s southern racing quadrants, Seven through Ten. No one lives there now—it’s just an island of abandoned skyscrapers. After the Wash Out, the government left them to crumble. The buildings were so huge and so high, it was too expensive. The Restructuring teams didn’t even bother.

Now they’re a racer’s playground, good and dangerous.

“It’s stopping,” Benny says.

Just north of us, the heli hovers over Quadrant One. Then it picks up again, travels down the arm of the U. At Quadrant Three, again it stops. If I’m right, Five is next—us.

Benny and I stay silent. We watch the heli lift up and continue south. Its props blow the air wild, rocking the suspension bridges that zigzag east to west, rooftop to rooftop. For many, they double as laundry lines, and right now, thanks to whatever business that heli’s got going here, entire neighborhoods are losing their clothes. Bet the Blues haven’t even considered how much it will cost us.

I was right . . . Quad Five is next. The aeromobile is so close I can make out its slice-em dice-em props and disk-shaped belly. And the words
Division Interial
painted on its side, though we just call ’em the Blues.

One guy in blue dangles out the pit, a megaphone to his mouth, and moments later we can hear him. “Attention, citizens!” he shouts.

Benny and I exchange glances.

“Due to the rampant spread of the HBNC virus, also known as the Blight, Governor Voss, two hours prior, has declared a state of emergency in the Ward. Effective immediately, he has enacted the following two Health Statutes for the good of the United Metro Islets.”

I scoff at that—the cancer virus is rampant all right, but not on the West Isle. This is for
their
good. We’ve already got it bad.

“Statute One,” the man with the megaphone continues, “declares transmission of the HBNC virus a statewide offense, punishable by arrest. The DI will be establishing a local Ward task force responsible for randomized public testing.

“Statute Two orders the suspension of all outbound, civilian trade and travel from the Ward to the West Isle until further notice.

“That is all. Please turn to your local radio channels for more information. Thank you.”

With that, the heli churns upward, back into the sky. We watch it hurtle off into the dark, more laundry scattering in its wake, but I’m still playing over the words in my head. Didn’t quite get all of their meaning, about health statutes and whatnot.

Benny falls back against the brick siding. “I don’t believe it. . . .” he whispers to himself.

“Believe what?”
He sounds so terrified
.

“A quarantine. Over the entire city. In not so many words, but that’s what it is.” He pauses, brings his hand to his mouth. “I, I can’t . . . I can’t leave,” he murmurs.

Is that what that meant?

“I’m sure they’ll let you cross,” I insist. “You live there—”

Benny shakes his head. Mutters, “Perhaps . . . perhaps,” as he runs a hand through his wiry, gray hair. “I’ll contact someone tomorrow. No doubt the lines will be busy all night.” But his eyes glaze over, he’s lost in his head, and I wonder if he really is stuck here for good.

We sit together, side by side, silent.

“How can they arrest people for being sick?” I ask, ’cause that part I mostly understood. Everyone knows the word
arrest
.

My question shakes him out of it, barely. “Transmission,” he clarifies. “You can be sick. You just can’t get anyone else sick.”

“Oh.”

We’re back to quiet again. Above our heads, the hour hand on the clock ticks closer to eleven thirty. I don’t want to sound like I don’t care—Benny’s in a rough spot—but my mind is stuck on whether I get to race tonight. I keep quiet, though. Can’t stop my mind from being rude, but I can stop my mouth.

I don’t have to say nothing, turns out.

Benny sees me hawk-eyeing the clock, and pats my knee gently. “You’ll race tonight,” he says, though his voice is tired and sad, like he’s not really here. “After all, you did make it to the bottom in just around ten minutes.”