Project Reunion (25 page)

“You’re not even sleepy, are you?” I groused. He seemed to think his selected aide had been a wizard last night, to provide us nearly five hours of uninterrupted sleep. I need at least six.

“Wired,” he agreed cheerfully. He took back the binoculars when I lowered them, and peered through them over my shoulder. “This is just too cool, darlin’. We did this.”

I hesitated. “You’re not worried about food riots?”

“Of course we are,” Emmett said. “Flores held test runs a few days ago. They went OK. This is a huge operation. It won’t go off without a hitch.” He squeezed me. “That’s OK. There’s our ride to the ferry. Let’s go!”

I had to admire his ability to maintain enthusiasm in the face of epic logistics tedium. With cold rain.

-o-

Three hours later, I finally saw actual New Yorkers getting fed. Our ferry’s first stop was the Hudson River Park, near Soho and the West Village. I wasn’t allowed off, but neither was Emmett. So I mostly watched through binoculars. Pinpoint precision on the leaflet-dropping had delivered about 8,000 to dine here. Loudspeakers had been tutoring the crowd for an hour, while the food and its wranglers poured off the ferry, setting up.

One of the tricks with feeding starving people is that they want to gorge, but could die of it. This crowd wasn’t quite that bad off – they’d managed to walk here on their own power. But the queue snaked through different stations, getting small servings at each. The first table supplied a hot cup of apple cider. The second supplied a sturdy paper plate and spoon. The third doled out a small portion of mashed potatoes. The fourth ladled a thin poultry and vegetable soup into the hot cups. And so on to the final station, where each guest received some take-home foods. At this particular stop we were gifting cranberry-applesauce and a canned vegetable, in home-canning jars, condensed milk, and a two-pound brick of cheese cut into 1-ounce slices.

I knew that. It had taken the past two hours to mobilize that. And I’d seen the survivors of the New York disaster before, on Long Island. I was still awed, and overwhelmed. With the binoculars I watched a woman move away from the first cider station, with two school-aged children. All three were emaciated, filthy, with cracked lips and open sores and red-rimmed eyes. They bore their cups reverently in mittened hands, to move clear of the table for the people behind. The little family stopped a bit further along, and sipped, eyes closed in bliss. A few Navy ratings, sailors wearing yellow face masks and big hazmat yellow over-gloves, gently touched them, to get them moving again to the next station.

“Dee.” Emmett placed a hand on the small of my back gently, but I still jumped. He’d been busy doing his job, plying his phone, while I watched the pageant on shore. “Our first guest is almost ready.”

He drew me to a heated compartment on the ferry, near the concession stand, which was once again in business preparing food. A table was set up, with white tablecloth and Navy silverware and china and sturdy cups. Candlesticks bracketed a pretty centerpiece of pine cones and bright gourds. Ten more of the yellow hazmat-accented sailors stood by a side table, waiting to serve us.

Emmett peeled off the first in the line of sailors, to take me aside and brief me on procedures. She showed me where to stow my outerwear – it was thoroughly warm in our dining room – and kitted me out with with my own yellow mask and gloves, and a yellow lap sheet to deploy under the table, wrapping my legs. I was to talk to our guests, only. Any touching or serving should be left to the waiting stewards and medics. And if I ever wanted to wear my blue velvet dress again, I’d better pray no bodily fluids reached it. There were procedures for that, and velvet was unlikely to survive. Or even wend its way back to me through the fleet.

The helpful medic sat me at the table beside Emmett, and rejoined the end of the steward line. I deployed my lap sheet. Another yellow-tipped pair of sailors rolled in our skeletally gaunt guest, in a wheelchair for his ease.

The man had been aboard for nearly the past hour, getting the spa treatment from the medics. His head was freshly shaved bare. I trusted they’d given him a choice on that. A shaved head was a valid fashion choice for a man, but anyone who tried to shave my hair would get an earful. Lice, fleas, crabs, and other nuisances were washed away in a deep hot bath. His own clothes were being boiled in bleach. He wore a crisp fresh suit of blueberry Navy cammies, clean socks and slippers. All his lingering wounds – starving people do not heal well – had been neatly tended, fingernails clipped and clean, half his fingertips clad in band-aids. I imagine his teeth were freshly brushed, too, and the toothbrush and toothpaste tucked into his goody bag. The bag dangled from the arm of the wheelchair.

Emmett rose to greet him. “Happy Thanksgiving, sir. Thank you for joining us. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Emmett MacLaren, U.S. Army. My girlfriend, Dee Baker.”

I smiled warmly. He couldn’t see my lower face, but a smile shows clearly in the eyes and voice. “Welcome.”

“Detective Yafuel Guzman. N.Y.P.D.,” our guest replied, with a trace of Caribbean accent in a rusty voice. The hovering medic served him another sip of hot cider. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, for inviting me. Are my people eating yet?”

“Yes. So far so good,” Emmett assured him. “Let us take care of your people today. I hope other leaders will join us, Detective Guzman, as we move up Manhattan. Give you a chance to meet each other in safety.”

Guzman looked alarmed. “You’re taking me away?”

“Only for the day. We’ll bring you back here. Around 5 p.m., I hope.”

The medic served Guzman a small portion of mashed potatoes. Emmett stopped talking. Clearly the potatoes expanded to fill the universe in Guzman’s eyes. The policeman unconsciously winced while he chewed, his teeth bad, but otherwise he looked beatific. He picked up the plate to lick it clean. He sat back, eyes closed. The medic unfolded a mirrored emergency heat blanket, and tucked it around his stomach. He slipped a second blanket, still sealed, into the goody bag.

And, just for a few minutes, Detective Guzman fell asleep.

Emmett, clearly moved, whispered in my ear. “A leader can’t relax, while his people are in jeopardy. He’s been carrying them. Through this. For a
year.
That’s a lot of trust, to sleep.”

I nodded understanding, and kissed him, mask to mask. Emmett closed his eyes and laid his forehead against mine, relaxing too. Just for a moment.

Guzman roused. I’m not sure he realized that he’d slept. “Colonel. I thought the Army hemmed us in. Left us to die.”

“Those were our orders,” Emmett agreed. “Fuck orders.”

Guzman barked a surprised laugh.

Emmett continued, “Our orders say that we can’t take down the borders until March. And the disease situation here means we really can’t, even then. But New York can’t hold out that long. The Northeast decided we had to help now. We can’t feed all of you. But that’s no excuse to do nothing.”

Emmett went on to explain the partial refugee evacuation plan, and the disease-controlled end of Long Island. But that a lot of people – over a million – would stay here in the city, with nowhere else to go. Whether or not that was a death sentence depended on leaders like Yafuel Guzman.

Another from the line of medics supplied a printed pamphlet outlining the evacuation plan, written for a New York public audience. Emmett’s spiel was practiced and well-prepared.

Guzman nodded. He shared his story with us. First responders in his section of Soho had banded together – police, fire fighters, emergency medical techs. Volunteer civilians joined them. They’d started with just a few blocks, centered on a supermarket. But they’d locked that down and defended it as their food cache. They’d instituted rationing from the first, including fuel oil and gas siphoned from the cars. Food was systematically retrieved from restaurants and abandoned housing, and stored. They’d barricaded their streets, and enforced order within. Looters were executed. The sick and dying were quarantined. Sanitation was enforced ruthlessly. Guzman himself was the fourth boss of the neighborhood. The first three were dead. Three quarters of their people were dead.

The first winter they’d mostly hunkered down and endured. They’d eaten the dead when everything else was gone. By spring, they got a few crops growing, and started to expand their turf. A similar community had secured Washington Square at the center of Greenwich Village, the largest green space in this section of Manhattan. The two communities merged.

Emmett mapped this on a tablet fetched by another of the ratings. He used a stylus to operate it in the hazmat gloves. Guzman simply used his fingers. “That’s only 8,000 people?” Emmett asked.

“Maybe three quarters of the people outside are mine,” Guzman supplied. “Maybe another thousand of mine didn’t come. The leaders I know of are up around Chelsea, Union Square, the Chinese gangs south of Canal, Little Italy, Alphabet City, Stuyvesant Town. I can’t tell you the exact extent of their turf.”

Emmett asked, “But you didn’t recognize any other leaders out in the crowd?” He pointed out the area where they’d dropped invitations.

“No. There wouldn’t be.” Guzman pointed to neighborhoods on the tablet map. “This part’s not bad, but not organized. Not many survivors. Over here we call the war zone. You may have invited some bad actors to dinner.” He stopped and considered. “Kids have mostly taken over the war zone now.” His ‘war zone’ seemed to be the westernmost West Village. “They’re kinda feral. We try to help ’em sometimes.”

“Like a gang?” Emmett asked.

“Yeah, but not like a gang before the borders. Just…kids. Orphans. Resilient. Feral.” He shook his head.

The medic decided it was time for a course of soup. Emmett let Guzman eat in peace. He compared Guzman’s neighborhoods with the leaflet drop areas assigned to us and others. We’d hopefully catch the Chelsea leader at our next stop. He messaged a couple other supper hosts who might find leaders from the Chinese gangs, Little Italy, and Alphabet City.

When Guzman was tracking again, Emmett said, “Detective, I’d like your advice. If I were to take some of your people for relocation, how many should I take? To leave you stronger. Some ground rules. I don’t want to take people who will just die anyway. This is a big investment for the people outside New York. I need people resilient enough to make it. Pick up their lives again out in the sticks somewhere. Buffalo. New Hampshire. Farm jobs, whatever. Migrants who can succeed, and make the people outside willing to take more next year. Think about it. Would taking 10 percent help?”

“Definitely. More,” Guzman said immediately, then paused to reconsider. “Not a lot more. Maybe...20 percent.”

Emmett made a note of ‘1500?’ on Guzman’s turf on the map. “Do you think I should take these feral kids?”

Reluctantly, Guzman shook his head. “Some people will never leave here. Not in their heads,” he explained softly. “Leave the stray kids here with me.”

Emmett made a note of ‘0?’ on the ‘war zone’ of orphaned children.

By 9:30 we cast off, and chugged north maybe a mile to the Chelsea Piers, to do it all again.

While Guzman was wheeled away for a bathroom break, and we got up for a stretch, I confronted Emmett. “Surely you should take the kids?”

He looked at me sadly. “A wise lady taught me to listen to other kinds of leaders. You, Dee. He’s probably right.” He kissed me on the forehead through his mask. “Darlin’, if anyone’s suited to live in what New York’s become, it’s those kids. I used to think they were the best candidates for evacuation. Especially if we could find relatives outside the city. But we’ve caught a feral band like that before. They refuse to remember their real names. They didn’t want to leave. Ate a meal, then escaped quarantine and vanished.”

“But orphans, Emmett.”

“Shh. We take in plenty. The adults bring us some. Some come to us on their own. There are a whole lot of orphans here.”

He held my hands in the hazmat gloves and leaned his forehead against mine. The medics respectfully interrupted to remind him. No touching. Holding hands in hazmat gloves was the limit.

Chapter 20

Interesting fact: New York City was highly diverse. Nearly 40% were foreign-born immigrants. Non-Hispanic whites made up 35% of the population, with blacks and Hispanics (of any race) both near 25%, and Asians 12%. Brooklyn and Queens were the most populous boroughs, each with over 2.5 million residents. Staten Island had the lowest population, at about half a million.

Chelsea Piers played out much the same as our first stop at Hudson River Park near Soho. Our table added a single new leader, a businessman named Raoul Valcourt, whose community was much like Guzman’s, except with a popularly elected leader at the helm. Valcourt and Guzman had dealt with each other before, and chatted guardedly.

Our final stop, the Midtown Ferry Terminal, was a whole different ballgame. There are only so many places on Manhattan where you can park a big ferry like the one Emmett and I were hosting for the day. And Midtown is – or was, at least – more densely populated than the low-rise neighborhoods of Soho and Chelsea. So the leaflets had attempted to invite about 15,000 people here.