Glimmering

The limousine began to drive away. As it did, Leonard stepped backward, his camera fixed on the car, heedless of nearby gunfire and smoke billowing from burning buildings. He moved deftly from the sidewalk into the middle of the shattered street, not feeling where embers gnawed through the soles of his boots or noticing the scent of his own scorched hair as he tracked those two faces staring at him from the car, recording them through the scrim of ash and video noise, the two of them growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared into the cloud of moving particles, flesh and flames and falling sky all exactly where Leonard wanted them.

And Leonard himself exactly where he had always wanted to be: dancing in the century’s graveyard, laughing at the end of all things.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Glimmering

It took them six hours to get to Lazyland. Trip tore a piece of fabric from his anorak and handed it to Jack. Jack wrapped his wounded hand, then slumped against his seat and fell into an exhausted stupor lanced with pain. Now and then he heard shouts from outside, Fayal’s curses and pleas for divine guidance, the sound of other vehicles, police sirens, ambulances. The boy in the front seat said nothing, and Jack made no effort to speak to him; only offered directions to Fayal when after hours they finally passed Co-op City, the limo edging through the mass of cars like a queen bee making her way through a broken hive. When Jack peered out the window behind them, he saw a city in flames: smoke rising from skyscrapers, flickers of gold and scarlet leaping from shadowy canyons and avenues. Fires burned along the George Washington Bridge. On the western banks of the Hudson he could see more blazes. The air inside the limo was acrid with the scent of burning.

At last they broached the outskirts of the city of Yonkers. They drove past crowds of people, revelers and rioters who moved reluctantly to let the limo pass. Bottles crashed against the hood, rocks bounced off the roof, and once Jack dived to the floor when Fayal yelled at him, and automatic weapons-fire echoed in the street outside. The car plunged through a sea of bodies. Jack heard a sickening thump, but Fayal just kept on going, until at last they were bouncing down familiar rutted streets, past Delmonico’s and the ruins of Hudson Terrace, past gutted mansions where Jack could see figures capering beneath a sky like an open wound.

“This is it,” he said hoarsely. He pointed to his home’s security gate. The limo nosed through, eased down the driveway, finally came to a stop in front of the wide veranda.

“You guys—out fast, okay?” said Fayal. “I’m gonna piss and get the fuck out of here.”

Jack opened the door and stumbled onto the drive. He blinked in the glare of—what? Morning? Dawn? When he glanced at his watch it said almost six.

“Jack!”

He turned and was nearly knocked down by Emma. “Oh, Jack,” she murmured, hugging him. Behind her he could see his brother Dennis, his mouth an O of anguished relief. “Jack, I thought you were—we all thought—”

Emma drew back to look at him. “Holy shit. You’re bleeding! Get inside, come on—”

“Wait.” Jack looked to where Fayal was zipping up his trousers and sliding back behind the wheel. “There’s someone else.”

The blond boy stepped from the car. He moved away as the engine gunned, and in a spray of gravel the limo shot back up the drive. With a desultory roar it turned out onto Hudson Terrace and disappeared from sight.

“Who is he?” Emma demanded.

“I have no idea. A friend of Leonard’s, I think.”

“A friend of—” Emma scowled. “Jesus Christ. Well, tell him to get inside.”

She looked at Jack’s injured wrist as she steered him toward the porch. “I have to tell you, Jackie,” she said in a low voice, and began to cough. “I hope your friend can take care of himself. I’m not feeling that well, I don’t know what it is.”

They walked inside. Jack turned, saw the blond boy gazing up at the mansion’s crumbling exterior, and beyond it the venomous sky.

“Hey,” Jack called. “Move it, let’s go.”

The boy nodded and followed him inside.

The house was dark. Jack’s brother cleared his throat. He was eight years older than Jack; in the months since he’d visited Jack in the hospital, Dennis’s hair had gone white. His face was gaunt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes. He squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “I’m—I’m glad you’re okay. I’m going to lie down—it’s been tough, Jackie.”

“Where’s Grandmother?”

“Upstairs. She’s all right. She’s sleeping. But—well, Emma will tell you. I’ll talk to you in a little while.”

Jack turned to Emma. “What happened? Is she really okay? Where’s Marz?”

Emma said nothing. Her face was grey with fatigue, blotched with small raised spots. She smoothed a hand across her head, the blond curls dank and flattened. “She’s dead, Jack,” she said. “She went into labor yesterday morning—”

“Oh Christ—”