Shifting Fates (6 page)

Kit’s paws are twitching, and I hope that her dreams end better than mine do. Slowly, trying not to disturb her, I tuck the wrapped doll at the bottom of the cot so she will see it when she wakes up.

The other presents I have hidden in a bag next to my cot. For the past two months, I’ve been on the lookout when I go topside for food. Sometimes I scavenge through dumpsters to see if there’s anything that the other shifters have missed. I try not to tread into territory I know is dangerous. There are monsters living in the Laz, and they’re not all animals.

I heard of a human gang living in a brownstone in Washington Heights who would shoot any animal that came down their street. Just snipe them from the window. I don’t ever go out in animal form anymore, even though it would be faster.

Still, I’ve found some treasures apart from the old bags of beans and rice. That’s what’s normally left in the emptied out apartments. But sometimes I get lucky.

For Logan, I have a little box filled with tools that I’ve found over the past months. Two screwdrivers and some screws; a pipe wrench; plenty of wiring from a computer I found shattered in the middle of the street. Someone had thrown it out of a window. I put the toolbox at the foot of his bed where he lies sleeping.

For Lily, I really wasn’t sure. She keeps the tunnel clean for us, and does most of the cooking with Logan, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate a new scrubpad or whatever. Instead, I snuck downtown to the east side where the rows of boutiques used to tempt rich ladies into overspending. A brick through a window, and I was inside. I picked out a beautiful light green dress for her and some fancy underwear: two bras and a handful of silk panties with price tags on them that boggle my mind.

Now, I put the wrapped package of clothes on her bed and worry that I made the wrong choice. She’ll love it no matter what—Lily, sweet Lily, always wanting to please—but I hope that I have better taste in clothing than I think I do.

At Nim’s bed, I pause for a moment and watch him. He’s almost a man now, and not for the first time I wonder if we’re destined to be mates.

I don’t think he loves me, not truly. And I certainly don’t love him. But the kids need someone to look after them, and if I ever were to get caught...

Not now, though. Maybe not ever. Nim turns in his sleep, the blanket falling off of his shoulder to expose his bare chest. His body is strong and able. He is a born fighter. I worry that he will go out looking for fights if he doesn’t have someone to come back to. I don’t want to lose him. I worry what it will take to keep him.

He’s so tall that his feet hang off the edge of the cot. I put the small square package next to his bed instead, so that he won’t knock it off. Not that it would break or anything—it’s just a book.

I check the clock. There’s plenty of time before the kids will wake. I put on my shoes and pull on a jacket. Slipping out of the tunnel, I close the door behind me. I walk quickly up the tunnel, trying not to step in the puddles as I go. I don’t have the lantern, and the tunnel is black as night until I’m around the bend.

The far side of the tunnel opens up into a subway stop, and I pull myself up on the train platform. All of the subway stops have been boarded up, but here there is one board loose and I’m able to squeeze through without breaking it. The last thing I want is to attract attention to the tunnels we’re hiding in. Likely as not, it doesn’t matter. Likely as not, they already know we’re somewhere down here.

Why else would they have sent out a military patrol last night, on Christmas Eve?

I run lightly through the empty streets. The sky is turning gray with the incipient dawn, but it’s still cold when I get to the edge of the river boardwalk. My breath comes out in white puffs. I look around but there are no patrols, and it’s too dark for humans to be coming out of their homes. After all, there are monsters prowling in the dark.

I wait, watching across the East River, and then the sun rises.

The sun breaks over the Macombs Dam Bridge. Or what used to be the bridge. The military blew up the middle of all of the bridges so nobody would escape from the city.

The whitewashed steel bracings of Macombs used to arch majestically across the entire river. Now the middle of the bridge is gone and the cables dangle crooked and useless. The steel is charred and twisted. The sun comes up through the middle of the gap, silhouetting the snapped steel tendons of the bridge.

The water flickers with light. The East River is cleaner now that everybody is dead in New York, and nobody to spill oil or gasoline into it. Ripples turn red and orange and white with the rays of the sun. The edges of the river are crusted with black ice. The ice reflects the red light of the sun, and for a second it seems to be a river of blood, but then the sun heaves up over the bridge and the red is gone and there’s only white, white light reflecting off of every bright and gleaming surface.

Ducks paddle around under me, hoping for bread even though nobody has fed them for years.

I close my eyes and feel the warmth spread over my skin. The rays lick my nose, my ears, my neck. I pull off my jacket to feel the sun on my arms. It’s cold, very cold this morning, and there’s frost on the ground, but I don’t care. I open my arms and let myself breathe the warmth in and out with my whole being, ignoring the goosebumps on my skin. Looking again up the river to the bridge, I smile in the silence.

My present to myself is this: a Christmas morning sunrise.

The siren breaks the morning air, wailing over the river. The ducks startle away, paddling out to mid-river. I snap my head around to see if there’s a patrol nearby. None that I can see. The siren rises to a high pitch, and my heart beats fast as I realize that it’s coming from farther west. They’re doing another raid. And from the sound of it, the sector they’re gunning for is the one right over our den.

I run.

Chapter Six

Cage

“Attention!”

I snap to attention at the head of my platoon and salute as the Major arrives at exactly 0800 hours. It’s Christmas morning and even though the troops are all supposed to be on leave today, he’s ordered us to report for duty. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last four years, it’s that you do what the Major tells you to do,
period
.

Major Harkut is a good twenty years too old to still be in his current rank, but even the first time I met him, something about the way his eye right eye twitched as he looked me up and down told me everything I needed to know.

He’s still a Major at his age because he’s
insane
.

Not strait-jacket, padded-room insane, mind you… a different, more dangerous type. He’s the type of insane who would knowingly send a company on a death mission if it’d advance his cause even the slightest bit, casualties and morals be damned.

In other words, he’s exactly the sort of crazy person the Lazaretto Containment needs right now.

“Captain Jones, at ease,” he barks. I relax my posture and approach him as my platoon watches on, my breath shallow in my chest. He’s my commander and I’d obey his orders to the end of the world, but I’d be a liar if I said he didn’t creep me out a little.

“Jones… were you briefed on today’s operation?” he asks, lowering his voice as he looks up at me. I’m a big guy—6’2” and 230 pounds—but something about Major Harkut’s confident glare tells me he ain’t cowed in the slightest. He’d break me in half in a second, given the chance.

“No, sir.”

“We’re retaking the Harlem Sector at noon today,” he tells me. “Radiation levels came back low enough that Central Command’s declared it salvageable. Platoon Alpha will be accompanying the engineers and protecting them while they evaluate functional infrastructure, Beta is covering Amsterdam Avenue, and…”

I nod silently, hanging onto his every word as he points at the enormous map of New York City plastered on the wall of the barracks. The Harlem Sector encompasses the territory between 125th and 175th up along the Harlem River, and, at least according to this map, the area we’re going into around 155th Street is densely packed with civilians.

“Sir,” I interject as he pauses to take a breath, “may I ask what we’re doing about the civilian population?”

He shoots me a long, almost disdainful stare, and then he turns back to the troops.

“Men… this little patch of sunlight is our target today,” he announces. “Harlem Sector—memorize it, because you’re all going in today. We’re taking back the functional infrastructure, salvaging whatever we can, and establishing a permanent presence in the area. Any objections?”

“No, sir!” shout two-hundred soldiers in unison, their voices so loud in the cramped barracks that my ears ring.

When the troops finally go silent, I clear my throat and speak up again.

“Sir… the Harlem Sector is heavily populated,” I repeat. “What are your plans for the displaced civilians?”

I point at the highlighted rectangle on the map from 155th to 160th street—a tiny yellow island in a sea of red—the one safe haven for civvies in a sector teeming with shifter scum. “If we push them out, they don’t have anywhere to go. There’s no functioning water or sewage for thirty blocks in—”

“Fuck the civvies!” interjects a grunt in the second row of the Beta platoon. “They ain’t much better than the shifters.”

I’d swear you can feel the room ice over as the Major and I stare the boy down. Neither one of us is taking kindly to his little outburst, even if our reasons for being angry aren’t the same. The Major prizes discipline and he’s clearly
pissed
at the breach of decorum, but me… I’m more concerned that we’ve got a psycho who doesn’t care about the people he’s supposed to be protecting.

“Do you want to do the honors, or do I deal with this one, sir?” I whisper to the Major.

“I leave it to you, Jones.”

“Soldier… step forward,” I bark, and the lines part as everyone backs away from the stupid shit until he’s standing alone in the center of a lonely circle. He doesn’t look too sure of himself anymore, and he nervously comes to the front of the room.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Johnson, sir,” he mumbles.

“Johnson, huh?” I repeat, practically spitting sarcasm. “It’s a shame you don’t much care for the civvies, because you’re gonna be serving them meals for the next month. You will report to the Times Square kitchen at 1200 hours today, and if you skip a single meal, I’ll let the Major deal with you.”

“Sir—”

“Shut the fuck up, Johnson,” I snap, and he goes silent. “Now get your ass back in line.”

The Major chuckles behind me, and I turn to face him again.

“To answer your question, Jones… we’re going to be displacing them to the Park Sector North in Central Park by the Beta Platoon. There are limited facilities, yes, but more than enough room for everyone. Any issues, soldier?”

He stares up at me, and I can see the unspoken challenge gleaming in his eyes. He’s daring me to question his order again—challenging me to stick my neck out for the axe.

“No sir,” I answer, trying my hardest to keep my voice cold and calm. “I understand, sir.”

The Major nods, satisfied with my response, and then he turns back to the troops again.

“Soldiers, you will receive your assignments from your platoon commanders at 1030 hours today. Any civilians are to be corralled for relocation to Park Sector North. If they refuse to leave… well, I’ll leave it to your platoon commanders to decide how threatening they are, if you get my drift.”

“Sir, yes sir!” everyone shouts, the walls vibrating from the noise.

“Oh, and if you see any Contaminates… their elimination is, of course, a priority,” the Major finishes, crossing his hands behind his back.

Contaminate
is the politically correct word for what we call
shifter scum
. Why anyone felt it necessary to sterilize the word for a bunch of filthy, murderous animals is beyond me, but I ain’t exactly a Washington politician.

“Troops, dismissed!”

The lines of soldiers break and everyone scatters to enjoy what little of their Christmas they’re going to get before this surprise operation. I bee-line for the balcony door—our barracks is on the twentieth floor of an abandoned skyscraper—and step outside into the frigid air to clear my head.

Those poor civvies, thrown out of their makeshift homes on Christmas morning. Cold. The idea leaves a horrible taste in my mouth, and I shake my head in disgust. It ain’t my call and it ain’t my say, but if it was… no way. It just ain’t right.

The girl’s blue-green eyes burst to life in my mind again, and my heart sinks even further into my stomach. What if she lives there? What if I’m about to throw her and her little girl out onto the streets? No… I can’t think like this. She ain’t my problem—she’s just a thief I let go free because it was Christmas Eve and nothing more.

Not like I’ll ever see her again anyway. I didn’t even find out her name.

The door opens behind me with a metallic clang, and I snap out of my thoughts and spin around. The Major nods in greeting and then joins me at the railing. I nod back to him as he leans over and stares down at the street below.

“You smoke?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

“All the more for me, then.” He pulls a cigar out of his inside coat pocket and strikes a match against a metal railing bracket. Within seconds, the sharp smell of tobacco fills the air and invades my nostrils. I’ve never been able to stand tobacco smoke, but I can hardly ask him to put it out, now can I?