Coming up on midnight. Retrieve my dual shoulder holster from a nearby sconce and slide into it, that leather worn almost to translucence. Feels right to tool up the two guns, feels natural. I love my books—but the Buddha knows I love me a pair of burners, and a tight outfit by Paul Smith outta the UK.

  One might wonder why I forgo the Kevlar vest that has two times saved my pissant life. The answer should be clear: vanity. Vesting up makes a tailored outfit vibe lumpy, deformed—and I’m much too old to go out looking any less than success.

  Get my look right and tight. This, as much as anything, is System-correct. In this way the dice is thrown.

  My implant shifts, settles in. Shiver.

  Apply PurellTM. This done, I pat the hat down on my nappy head, in mourning already for the water damage my threads will sustain.

  Snatch up my woolen overcoat, and scoot.

  * * *

  Escalade dodges and dips as if over choppy water as we head alongside the park via 5th Avenue, nearing the northeast corner at 105th Street. Still well south of the South Bronx, but I feel the ghost-energy of the streets of my youth. Wonder what remains in the hinterlands.

  Furthest north I’ve been in months, and there’s natural sense in that. This is the land of the lost. The Coalition-controlled Great Rebuild terminates round about 96th Street, as nothing of value lies uptown. Some might tell you this has always been so.

  Slide out the Escalade into a medium-hard rain, grimace, flipping the collar on my wet-dog overcoat. Note the phalanx of Cyna-corp positioned near the long-suffering Vanderbilt Gate, which has lost none of its grandeur despite the barbed wire—in fact, it looms all the more forbidding.

  Beyond this, the Jungle.

  Hard looks from the guardsmen, though surely they were apprised of my arrival. Or not.

  Tap the driver’s window, which whispers open. I get an impressionistic look at Chip, only my third or forth in the whole of our collaboration. Smallish white dude, blue government suit, those overlay computer glasses all these cats wear, displaying constant shit like inaccurate weather forecasts.

  I lather up the PurellTM and pop a pill, saying: “Chip, my son. Keep the motor running, willya?”

  Chip emits some sort of grunt which I find hard to interpret.

  With a slightly tweaked gut I rotate toward the gate, withdrawing my badge, lowering my face mask, and attempt to contort my mug into an authoritative yet friendly shape. Official business or not, these Cyna-corp motherfuckers hate me.

  * * *

  Short splashy descent into the bush and it’s a whole new scene. My penlight is dead, fuck it. I steer left toward the Conservatory Garden, blinking, limp down the main path, illuminated by the occasional chopper and the spot from the NYPD tower. City employees were doubtless hipped to my activity here and told to hang back.

  Irregular shadows, uncomfortably organic, impossible to decode. Not a cityscape, and therefore outside of my comfort region.

  The brogues are louder than I would have liked on the chipped stone tile, though the rain obscures most sound. I rest a finger lightly on my Sig Sauer. Dressed all wrong, but this is more or less my only outfit. In most situations it’s a good one.

  Sand in my ear, which I’m attempting to ignore.

  Plants dead and dying, those hardy enough to live off this air growing unchecked. What terrain I can make out is monochromatic brown. My heart is jacked, techno BPM.

  A set of holes, blackened areas in one indicating recent controlled fires, the presence of charred wood, perhaps bone . . . the next thick with algae.

  The primary path is blocked off by a dam of garbage and branches, and I am forced into a narrow corridor which could have been described at one time as an arbor. Fuck if I want to crawl in there, but I’ve got no options.

  Exhale and shuffle forward. A snarled, low-hanging canopy of crab apples creates a claustrophobia-inducing tunnel, and I am forced to slightly duck my head. Once I’m inside, the rain batters away at the dead wood and leaves above. Lions and tigers and bears. Despite the “natural” setting, I’ve rarely felt more constricted in this city. Seems counterintuitive that vegetation would flourish so, given the poison air and water. This thought in itself is disturbing.

  The Stench is unspeakable, sweet and rotten. Dead fruits recall shrunken heads. I gotta confess my nerves are a mite strained. Can’t make out anything between the trees as they have fused together to create a solid mass.

  At once—the deceased Hakim Stanley is here with me.

  I can detect his movements over the tattoo of the rain, folding himself out of the tree cover overhead and onto the pathway. Naturally: the young brother is always there, in the dark, in every patch of darkness, waiting, a hole in his head, in boots and digi camo for all time. He is at my heels now, his breath on my neck, the metal within.

  Resisting the urge to either turn or break into a run, I attain the ass end of the tunnel, scuttling away from the dank tube, not turning lest my sense of Hakim be confirmed. Couldn’t handle that at the moment.

  Frozen now, breathing, listening, here at another juncture; the road to the left would seemingly loop back and lead me from whence I came. Take this moment to swap out my gloves, shake out some PurellTM. Grit under the tongue. I hock it up and spit into darkness.

  Check my clothes one more time, and check ’em good . . . dirt-carrying spores get into a sliver cut, next thing a sucker knows he’s bent over backward, some Exorcist shit. Lockjaw. Not a desirable way to go out.

  The path to the right, toward the Harlem Meer, is where I must go. Snaking a soft right behind some tall brush, I gingerly creep a couple meters, rounding the corner . . . and where I should have a view of the Conservatory Garden I glimpse a skyless mass. It takes more than a moment to sort out what I’m looking at.

  A vast canvas tent, stained and discolored by filthy air and water, a structure of the type used for larger outdoor gatherings, weddings. A heavy plastic flap is tied open, and within I can detect electric light, and movement.

  Hold it here. Scope the trees, which are poor cover, skeletal and thinned out. Peepers peeled for lurkers, gatekeepers. Seeing nothing, I get clean with some PurellTM, pop a pill, and lurch forth.

  Prep for enclosed space. Mask tight. Gloves secured. Thinking: Bacterial meningitis. Step into the massive ad hoc pavilion. Orderly rows of cots, in surprising number. Children, elderly, the works, laid out amidst the cut-back shrubbery. The rain patter and the spaciousness of it all lends a fantastic calm to the air.

  Realize I’m not breathing. It’s a fucking extraordinary sight, and I’m blindsided by a complex mash-up of emotions . . . It occurs to me that it’s been a long stretch since I’ve seen a group of human beings in such close quarters who weren’t a faceless construction gang, or a military formation of some kind. Move my hand off my gun like I’ve been stung, with an intense impression that I am by my presence endangering everyone.

  Off my game to the degree that I don’t see the kid until he’s up in my grill, hissing, “Hey. Hey. That’s far enough.”

  Dominican kid, early twenties, me saying, “Take it easy, son. I got—”

  “Keep it down, wake everybody up.” He looks around wildly. “Our legal people . . . got papers . . .”

  I lower my voice. “Take. It. Easy. Just came to chat with your boss, that’s all.”

  “At two o’clock in the morning?”

  Crack a grin, take the boy’s ear, and rasp, “Son, don’t you know the whole motherfucking world ended back when you were learning to crawl? Ain’t no office hours anymore. Now take me to your fucking leader.”

  _________________

  Middle-aged white lady in multiple layers of thrift-store gear, gray hair up in a tight bun, old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses held together with tape. She squats near a statue, formerly a fountain, a trio of dancing women in bronze, holding a flashlight by which to read, though she’s got a decent fire going.

  A cot lies nearby, occupied by a pubescent kid. I can see the face on it, a dark-skinned female whose radiance is clear even in sleep, mouth agape, an explosion of curls. I hate to disrupt this peaceful tableau but I’m a busy dude.

  “Evening, ma’am,” I stage-whisper.

  Lady flips the flashlight in my face, turns it off hastily. “Oh, excuse me, did Makasi let . . . Yes, can I help you?”

  “My name’s Dewey Decimal. Might we have a word?”

  She regards me for two or three breaths. “As in the Dewey Decimal classification system?”

  “Precisely, yes.”

  Taps her Patricia Cornwell novel against her knee. Wanna grab the book, tag it, clean it, file it. The librarian in me.

  “Who did you say you were with?” the lady inquires.

  Clear my throat. “Here on my own. Not ‘with’ anybody tonight.”

  Her peepers: there’s a quick strobe of exchanged electricity, zing. I shudder—she’s a witch.

  I know from witches. I know all about witches. Fucking Dominicans I came up with . . . chicken coops in unused lots . . . the Botanica near Grand Concourse and 183rd, by the ninety-nine-cent store . . .

  Begin to back away just on reflex.

  Woman has her headlights on me tight, and they appear brighter than they should in this light. They are the eyes of a much younger woman.

  “Pssts,” she says dismissively, waving her book. “It’s just science.” Witch rifling through my mind.

  “What’s that?” I say, hoping my fear isn’t completely apparent, knowing she can read me anyway.

  “Quantum physics, all that. Are you going to be all right?” An open smile.

  I nod, and so does she. Looks to the sleeping kids. Then she stands, brushing herself off. Frowns at the little girl.

  “Let’s step outside so as not to disturb the children.”

  “Wet out there, ma’am,” I hear myself saying, indicating my soaked coat. Truth is more like I don’t dig those haunted woods. If I’m real: not thrilled to be alone with a witch scanning my brain.

  She tugs her dark-green Parks Department jacket tight around her torso, saying friendly like we’re just popping out for a coffee, “I think I’ll be fine. Made it this far.”

  * * *

  “Tetanus,” says the white lady as I’m handing her a Lucky. We’re parked under a dead tree about twenty feet from the bivouac.

  “How’s that?” Next I go for the PurellTM, hearing shit like tetanus, slap it on proper. Any mention of . . .

  White lady watches me working without comment, says: “My granddaughter. You saw her. She’s very sick.”

  “Yeah? That’s rough.” I’m seized by the sudden urge to be out of there. Me yakking, “Nowhere to go out of the elements? Is that it? Cause . . .” Lady just shaking her head with a spooky smile. Shift it, say, “What’s your bag, ma’am? You some kind of, what? Anarchist? Environmentalist?”

  Lady gives a short barky laugh, then: “Marcia. Marcia Stanislavski. I taught kindergarten through sixth grade, over at PS 20.”

  I cluck my tongue. “Couldn’t have been much easier than all this survivalist stuff, damn. That was in Flushing, right?”

  She gives a small nod, smiles politely. I shuck the bunk small talk, saying, “Fuck do you people want, really?”

  “You think this is political. Why should we want anything?”

  “Everybody wants something, teach. Way of the world, I don’t need to tell you that.”

  She takes a sharp drag. “All right then. We want to live.”

  “Shit, I want to live too. However, I opt to do this in spots where I ain’t committing criminal trespass—”

  Lady holds up a hand, damaged, fingers sealed together, via extreme heat would be my guess. That’s something we share, I suppose, crippled appendages.

  “I wasn’t quite through, sir. Yes, we want to live, but more than this: we want our children to live. And not as slaves.”

  Shift my weight. Gauge my position. Grit on my tongue. Movement nearby, aspiring for stealth. I let it be for the moment—

  Stay gold, Decimal. You’re a boss.

  Say, “Y’all gotta get up and go ‘live’ somewhere else is the thing. Otherwise, don’t see anybody stopping you folks living, ma.”

  “Oh no?” She gestures due east with her claw, which I can’t help but notice has an undamaged, well-chewed fingernail protruding from its tip. “What do you see there?”

  I drop my cigarette, not digging her tone, which has veered preachy . . . Sigh, regard a tangle of cranes, girders going up, one site among many, perhaps fifteen blocks south. Chewing on sand. “This some kinda political—”

  “No politics, I already said that. I’m asking you to simply look around.”

  “Above my pay grade, ma.”

  “I ask for your impressions, that’s all.”

  I exhale again. Dig on the broken cityscape, indulge the woman. “All right, ma’am, I’ll play for a minute. I would describe that as one big-ass construction site, provided you’re not trying to drop a metaphor of some kind on me.”

  She looks west. “And over there.”

  I don’t even need to look cause there’s only two things to see—nothing, or: “Yet another big-ass construction site. So what’s the nut here, ma’am, or are we just taking a tour of our past and future skyline?”

  “I want to know what they’re actually making.”

  Recall asking myself the same question several lifetimes ago, gaping up at the Empire State. “More big-ass buildings to replace the old big-ass buildings . . . Okay, I see where you’re going with this.”

  “Do you?”

  “Can you drop the Socratic shit? It’s irritating, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Apologies.” She looks sideways and motions with her head. Behind the trees . . . ?

  “Hey, hey, hey. Na. Your people try anything now and I’ll shoot everybody I see dead, understand?”

  She moves her mouth, tightens her lips. “We have no weapons.”

  “Well I do, ma’am, and I want everybody to back off.” Feeling queasy, casting my marbles hither and thither.

  “It’s just us.”

  I listen, breathing. Regaining a dominant stance, though I’m holding my stomach.

  “Just us,” she repeats.

  “Fair warning,” I say, “okay?”

  She nods.

  “Okay, let’s think this through. You want to talk about what’s going on? Wax philosophical?”

  Lady shrugs. I can’t see her as well as I’d like so I attempt to steer her into a patch of light. Saying, “I dig you. You’re pointing out the obvious here. Right, so they’re rebuilding all this mess to suit a certain segment of society’s needs. Restructuring everything to suit different agendas. Common factor being wealth.” Finding it harder and harder to come off cold about the realness I’m putting voice to. Start to really feel it, cause I’ve always felt it. “Housing the money, protecting the money.” And I’m angry, unexpectedly angry. Slightly horrified to hear myself jabbering: “Nobody’s building you or me a place to call home, that’s for damn sure. What they’re setting up . . . You think I don’t know how this game ends, lady? You think I don’t know where the fucking chips fall here?”

  I angle slightly away, face hot. Said more than called for there. And I did not feel in complete control. I allowed myself to be drawn out. Damnit, I’m stronger than that. My stomach . . .

  Woman nods. Pupils coal black like mine, like my daddy’s, with that unnervingly inner light. Moves closer, saying gently, “So I suppose it’s up to each of us to decide where we come down on this issue.”

  Can’t be playing this game. Trifling. Lady running some voodoo on me. Gonna have to refocus on what I’ve been tasked with.

  “Listen here, sister teacher. Consider this an extremely generous courtesy visit. But an official visit nonetheless.” I badge her, she squints to read it.

  “State Department, is it now?”

  “’S’right. Now you all, all of you, are in violation of at least four emergency mandates, including trespassing, illegal congregation, occupation of government property, endangerment of minors—”

  Her monster paw is abruptly aloft, drifting my direction. Lizard brain reacts first and I smack her mitt out of the air.

  “Don’t you fucking touch my suit. You do not fucking touch my suit.”

  Overdone a bit on my part. Lady cradles her hand. Hit her harder than intended, but this witchy bat is tough, and doesn’t emit a whimper.

  “Now I’ve been a gentlemen. We’ve conversated, I’ve heard your hippie rap and now you hear mine.” I say it calm and tight.

  She confirms she’s heard me by nodding.

  Back up a step or two. Breathe, Decimal. Schoolmammy’s a ninety-five-pound slip of a thing. She’s been touched, got powers, so what.

  Rustles flanking me indicate the definite presence of others. I go ahead and pull out my Beretta, letting it hang and be seen, figuring I’ve nearly done what I can here.

  “Please,” she says, “that’s not necessary.”

  This I ignore. Hawk up something meaty, spit it into the brush. “Here’s the upshot, Miss Lady. Noting you’re pretty well dug in, noting what you folks are up to, I’m going to report back to my superiors that y’all are harmless. Can’t guarantee they’ll listen to me. Ya heard?”

  Schoolteacher nods. I raise my voice so that everything in the vicinity can partake.

  “But. It’s important that you understand this condition. IF you and your people have NOT vacated the park within seventy-two hours—I’m coming back with some of my less sympathetic coworkers, and they’re gonna burn this tree house down, not giving a fuck who’s in it.”

  “Oh my,” says the lady, not sounding too concerned.

  Feel like I’m not making quite the impression I’m aiming for, but I press on: “And with these motherfuckers? It’s gonna be Vietnam ugly from the jump. Trust when I say they love this kind of shit, and these motherfuckers are bored and mean. Now, I want you to tell me you fully appreciate what I’ve just said.”

  The lady has moved into the shadows, and this makes me edgy.

  “But you can help us, Mr. Decimal.”

  “Did you or did you not just hear me tell you . . .” Goddamn my gut . . .