Archipelago N.Y.: Flynn (7 page)

Marcus Van Zandt
stood by the window and took a sip of his instant coffee. It tasted bitter,
although he had dropped two spoonfuls of sugar in his cup and some of that
powdered milk they still had in his well-stocked kitchen pantry. He knew the
bitterness came from the water. No matter how they treated and filtered it, the
Archipelago’s drinking water still had traces of salt. Van Zandt had, of course,
enough supplies of bottled water, but he thought it was a waste to use it for
his morning coffee… He tried to recall the taste of real coffee and real milk
then brushed that memory away quickly. Let bygones be bygones... These things
from the past would never make it back into his life. Real or not, he was holding
a mug of steaming coffee in his hand! Who else in this city, all things
considered, had such a privilege these days? No one, except him and a handful
of his most trusted men. That fact always gave him great pleasure. His thin
lips stretched into a smile. It was the smile of a survivor… a truly victorious
survivor.

Van Zandt leaned on
the window and gently drummed his fingers on the glass. Yes, he had real glass
on his windows, not those nasty nylon sheets that the Lower Siders used. A few
scattered bullet holes dotted the glass, but Van Zandt never bothered having
them covered up, or the glass replaced. They were a reminder of the battle that
had raged in his building many years ago… The battle that his father had fought
and won! It had become his ritual to start the day here at the observation
deck, on what used to be the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building. Of
course, it was no longer called that… Now it was known as the Van Zandt Building
and from its penthouse windows, he had a 360 degree view of the sprawling
Archipelago. His Archipelago!

He was looking
north at an area once called Central Park, and which now lay buried under
millions of gallons of ocean water. It was home to his Floating Desalination
Plant, part of the Van Zandt Water Solutions Company… The company that gave him
the power to hold the Archipelago and its people in his iron grip… The only
source of fresh water that sustained life in this God-forsaken place, he
thought happily.

Marcus wasn’t even
born, when his father had established Van Zandt Water Solutions. Shortly after
the Flood and the initial chaos, a group of wealthy survivors had realized two
things. First, that the rooftop water-tank supplies won't last for very long
and that collecting rain water was a futile mission. Second, they had to find a
long-term solution if they were to survive. By sheer good luck, Van Zandt
Senior had the answer to everyone’s problem … He had found himself stranded in
the same building with a marine scientist and a brilliant desalination expert
named Nakamura. Van Zandt, who had already formed a powerful militia to guard
his neighborhood’s water tanks, had quickly seen an opportunity… he had taken
Nakamura under his wing and Van Zandt Water Solutions had been born. After his
father's death, Marcus had stepped in his shoes and solidified the Van Zandt rule
of law over the Archipelago. He was pushing sixty now, but appeared at least
ten years younger. With his ash-blond hair combed back, tall and slim, he knew
he looked good. No one had patent shark-skin shoes and leather jackets like he
did!

Marcus Van Zandt
took another sip from the steaming cup and his eyes fell on the lone spires of
St. Patrick's Cathedral, sticking out of the water and now used as a mooring
dock for rafts and various seafaring vessels… Those spires were sad relics of
the past, no longer having any meaning, half buried under water and long forgotten.
There was no place for religion on the Archipelago… Van Zandt was the one
calling all the shots. He was the people’s savior, and the Greater Good
Doctrine was their new religion! If people prayed, they did that behind closed
doors and kept it quiet.

Van Zandt glanced
at his watch, drained his cup and left it on the windowsill for the maid to
pick up. He went down the spiral staircase of his penthouse, nodded to his
butler standing at the door and took the pair of gloves the man was holding on
a silver tray. Van Zandt loved these gloves and never went anywhere without
them. Now, flanked by a couple of his guards, he was ready to start the day by taking
the elevator down two floors to his boardroom.

“For the Greater
Good, gentlemen!” Marcus Van Zandt greeted his Council members, who were
already gathered around the long, polished oak table. He waved his hand when
they rose from their seats to salute him. "Please, sit down," he said.
Van Zandt eased into the big chair at the head of the table and studied the
men’s faces for any signs of discomfort… and possible betrayal… There they were,
all his cohorts and partners in crime, waiting for him to speak… First, there
was Vince Jordan, his Chief of Security, a large black man in his fifties. He
had the habit of constantly playing with the buckle of the pistol holster
hanging on his belt. Clasping and unclasping, always ready, even during their
board meetings. “Can't take your hands off your gun, can you Vincent?” Van
Zandt said, jokingly. “No one's threatening us in here!”

Jordan snapped to
attention and quickly placed his massive hands on the table in front of him.
His expression was that of a scolded child. Jordan was the spitting image of
his father. The Old Jordan had been a high ranking police officer at the time
of the Flood, stuck by chance in the same building with Van Zandt’s father. It
hadn’t taken him long to assess the new situation and team up with Van Zandt.
Surrounded with a solid group of armed officers, they had fiercely guarded the
water stored in the rooftop tanks and everything else that was of value. There
were fights, blood was spilled in the turf war that followed… many died in the
struggle for survival…Later, when things began to settle down, Old Jordan had
managed to gather all the remaining police officers, firefighters, security
personnel, and virtually anyone who was carrying a badge or a weapon, and he
had created the Archipelago’s New Security Force. All firearms were confiscated
and gathered in one place, away from the hands of the population. Anything
salvaged underwater had to be surrendered to the Security Force. Those caught
with an illegal weapon were killed on the spot! With all the firepower on their
side, Old Jordan and Van Zandt had established and enforced the new laws of the
land. Those who rebelled against the Van Zandt Government were severely
punished and paid with their lives. When Old Jordan passed the torch to his
son, Vince Jordan had quickly become Marcus Van Zand's second most trusted man.

Van Zandt's eyes
shifted quickly over to Ted Junior. He was Nakamura’s son and had taken the
seat next to Jordan. He had also followed in his father's steps and was
overseeing the desalination and water distribution process between the Upper
and the Lower Side. Van Zandt considered him the weakest link in his chain of
command. Son of a scientist, the man was too soft and unfit to deal with the
brutal realities of life on the Archipelago. His ideas of freeing up the water
distribution, and increasing the daily rations were driving Van Zandt crazy. Of
course, he would have gotten rid of Ted Nakamura a long time ago, but his hands
were tied. Nakamura was the only one who knew the desalination formula, and he was
the only one capable of making it work properly.

And then there was
Duncan Roth, the Rottweiler. Marcus looked at the man and gave him a slight nod
of appreciation. Duncan was something else! He was in charge of the Free
Scavengers, of every scavenging operation and the distribution of all precious
salvaged goods from the waters of the Archipelago. But Duncan was also an
engineer and often supervised construction sites, making sure that none of the salvaged
materials were being wasted. He was the only one on the board who held two
positions… And the man performed both jobs with unmatched ruthlessness and superb
attention to detail. Everybody feared the Rottweiler! And precisely because of
this, Van Zandt trusted him even more. He was his best and most trusted ally.

Marcus greeted the
rest of the Council members with a cold stare and waited for them to take out
their handheld computer devices. Silently, he blessed his father for having the
foresight to order the Security Force confiscate as many of them as it could.
Before the Flood, most of these devices used to be phones, but they no longer
worked as such. No one could place a call on them even if they tried… All lines
of communication had gone silent decades ago... But as long as their batteries
lasted, they could still perform other valuable functions. They were now used
for organizing, record keeping, event planning, adding and subtracting, and the
making of lists. Only Government officials of the highest rank were issued with
such hardware, and Van Zandt had instructed everybody to guard them with their
lives.

“Well, who wants
to start?” Van Zandt eyed the group.

“I'll start,” said
a short, chubby man, clearing his throat. Doctor Oscar Zamora, the person
responsible for assessing the overall health of the citizens, now pressed the
screen on his handheld pad. “I’m pleased to announce that we’ve finalized the
Departure List! This year we have a few kids among the group… According to our
medical opinion, all of them are cases which are beyond any hope of
healing."

“Speak plainly,
Oscar!” Van Zandt sounded annoyed. “You mean the kids are useless to us because
they’re dying, right?”

“Correct, sir,”
Dr. Zamora nodded.

“Well, if it's for
the greater good of all concerned, I won’t object,” said Van Zandt, folding his
arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “Losing young blood is
always regrettable, but we need our Lower Side population to be strong and
productive,” he addressed the table.

“Perhaps, sir, we
should look into holding our annual Day of Pairing … Have it shortly after the
Departure… This way, we’ll be encouraging the start of a new generation,” Dr.
Zamora suggested.

“Excellent idea!”
Van Zandt seemed suddenly very animated. “Find out who’s come of age. Help those
boys and girls pair up... The sooner they start making babies the better. We’ll
replenish our livestock on the Lower Side in no time.” Van Zandt laughed,
feeling very pleased with himself. “Now, read that Departure List to me.”

“We have
fifty-three people altogether. Forty-eight adults and five kids. I’ll start in
alphabetical order: Greg Andrews, Sandy Chia…”

Suddenly, Dr.
Zamora was interrupted by rapid tapping sounds coming from outside one of the boardroom’s
big windows.

“Hold on Oscar,” Van
Zandt said, getting out of his chair. “Looks like we’ve got some urgent mail…” He
walked briskly over to the window where a steel-grey pigeon was waiting. It had
landed on a small perch attached to the window’s sill. The bird tapped its beak
on the glass again. Van Zandt opened the window, scooped the bird in his hand,
and then carefully retrieved a folded scrap of paper out of the pouch round the
bird’s neck. All eyes were on him as he opened the note and silently read it. “It’s
from Jenkins,” he said, frowning. “Another tower’s partially collapsed on the
Lower Side! It’s taken down two bridges… Quite a lot of casualties!”

“I’m on my way!”
Duncan Roth stood up immediately and was already half way out of the room.

“Me too!” Jordan said
and followed the Rottweiler.

“Go to work,
gentlemen!” Van Zandt peered out of the window in the direction of the Lower
Side. “The Departure List will have to wait.”

“Antonio's not
feeling well today, Flynn!” Mrs. Romero shook her head, her eyes full of worry
and pain.

Flynn was trying
to peek inside Tony’s apartment, but his mother had now completely blocked the low
doorway with her body. “Can I come in and see him? Just for a minute?”

“Better not…. I
want him to rest… not get too excited.”

“But we’ve got
to...” Flynn began to say something and stopped. “Never mind, I’ll go and get
him some more medicine… That’ll fix him.”

“It won't help
much, Flynn!”

“Then what will,
Mrs. Romero?”

“Dr. Omar says
Tony needs stronger food, mountain air ... whatever that is anyway… we don't
have it,” said Mrs. Romero wringing her hands. “And he’s had to report Tony’s
condition to the Government…. to Dr. Zamora’s people!” The poor woman choked
up, her eyes filling with tears.

“Mom, who is it?”
Tony's voice came from inside the apartment. It sounded weak.

“Nobody, son,”
Mrs. Romero said over her shoulder, never taking her eyes away from Flynn. “I'll
be right in.”

“Well, I'll drop
by tomorrow, then,” Flynn said.

“Please, don't!
He's not going out any time soon!” She hesitated then grabbed Flynn’s hand and
leaned closer. “Tony doesn’t have a pair of lungs like you do ... made out of
steel… he can barely breathe, Flynn!” she whispered, her voice full of
bitterness. Mrs. Romero let go of Flynn, stepped back inside and closed the
door flap.

Flynn felt
terrible. He had truly believed the medicine would help Tony get better, keep
him going…. It had been Tony's last hope after all those visits to Dr. Omar and
the Lower Side Infirmary, the miserable little hospital ward on the corner of
Bridge and Broad Street Canals. It occupied the lowest two floors of the
building, so patients didn’t have to be carried up and down stairs and
walkways. The Archipelago had a much better medical facility on the Upper Side,
but it was off-limits for the Lower Siders. Dr. Omar did all he could for the
sick and those wounded in accidents around town. He was another ancient, spared
from the Departure List, like Mr. Kowalski. Over the years the man had
performed miracles, considering the lack of medical supplies and the appalling
conditions he was working under. He had even come up with a few break-through
medical solutions…using algae and various types of jellyfish, he had
successfully developed replacements for conventional and long lost medicines.
And he had also done an amazing job with Flynn, stitching him up after the
shark tooth incident… Flynn could easily have lost his arm if it weren’t for
the good doctor… But there wasn't much the old man could do for Tony, apart
from suggesting the boy continue with the nightly algae inhalations. Every time
he examined the ailing boy, he would look at Mrs. Romero and shake his head in
despair. Dr. Omar knew he was helpless and had pretty much given up on Tony.

Flynn stood in
front of the Romero's door, scratching his head… Now what? Mountain air? Where
the hell was he going to get that from? Mountains didn't exist, he knew that.
Only in pictures and in tales of what the world was like before the Flood…
Flynn remembered staring for hours at the faded photographs of snow-capped
mountain peaks, green valleys and fields covered with flowers…of dark blue
lakes and lush forests…They were all in the old magazines and books his father
kept hidden away in their apartment. Allan Perry had used them for teaching
Flynn to read and write. There were no schools anymore... Parents on the Lower
Side were left to their own devices when it came to educating their children.
Most didn't bother at all. Those who did would stick mainly to the basics –
reading and writing. No one cared about teaching Geography and History. Who
needed to know about things of the past, buried under tons of water and never
coming back!

Yes, Flynn had
seen the pictures of what used to be out there, but they were just that ...
pictures. You couldn’t breathe fresh mountain air from a picture, could you! Last
night, he had eavesdropped on the conversation between his father and Mr.
Kowalski… heard all that nonsense about some magical healthy Dry Land far in the
West… Mr. Kowalski was getting old and losing his mind, Flynn thought. There
was nothing out there! Nothing, but ocean and tiny outposts with contaminated
waste.

He glanced once
more at Tony's door, turned away and slowly started to climb up the filthy
steps of the Romero's apartment building. He had to stop fooling himself. Tony
wasn't going to be fit to partner him in the Trials. But who else was there?
All the boys his age had teamed up already. Except ... Flynn stopped suddenly,
sucking in his breath… This wasn't going to work, but what the heck ... It was
worth a try, he thought as he rushed up to the roof of the building.

 He had not come
with his raft to check on Tony, since the boy lived only a block away from him.
Flynn had walked the distance. He had used the big bridge over Greenway Canal
and then a couple of suspended walkways between buildings to get to Tony's…Now,
he had to cross all the way to the east corner of the Lower Side… and walking
was out of the question. Flynn knew that he had no other choice, but to get on
one of the cable cars.

The Baldwin Cable
Car system was the brainchild of Dan Baldwin, a member of the First Government
and a close associate of Van Zandt Senior. The man was long dead, but his
cable-car system lived on. It was regarded by the Government as the work of a
genius, a great achievement in providing public transportation and helping to
ease the traffic on the waterways. They were especially proud of the cables
connecting the Upper and Lower Side. Those ran the length of the submerged
Midtown section, on both sides of the Van Zandt’s Pipeline, with cable cars
crawling up and down above Midtown Bay.

Well, Flynn hated
the cable car service. It was slow, unreliable and often dangerous, he thought
as he climbed onto the shaky station platform. The platform jutted out from the
roof of the building and its corrugated sheets of metal wobbled under Flynn’s
feet. Stepping cautiously toward the edge, he grabbed the side railings to
steady himself. He took a look around and felt dwarfed by the wind turbines,
towering above him from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Half a dozen
huge fans, covered in grime and bird droppings, rotated slowly, the shadows of
their blades dancing all around Flynn. Coils of power cables hung from the turbines’
motors and stretched down to the Lower Side Generator building. Relics from the
past, some of the generators still worked, providing energy alongside the
clusters of solar panels. But, one by one, these machines were failing, due to
the diminishing number of spare parts needed to keep them up and running. As
hard as they tried, the Free Scavenger crews weren’t bringing up anything that
could help Mr. Kowalski and his team help fix the problem.

A new sound made
Flynn shift his gaze. The thick suspension cable above his head was now vibrating
madly with a low hum. He was in luck today. A cable car was coming right on
schedule. Flynn glanced to his left, and there it was, swaying in the air and
slowly making its way toward him. The car’s cabin was a rusting shell of a bus,
salvaged from the depths of the Archipelago’s waters. It had been stripped
clean of its wheels, gears and engine, leaving only its tattered seats inside.
An effort had been made to scrub away the thick crust of barnacles which clung
to the bus’ sides, but a row of them still remained along its undercarriage.

All of the
Archipelago’s cable cars operated on human power. A couple of sturdy
bicycle-like frames were welded inside every cabin, with pulley cables running
from their gears through a hatch in the roof. The pulley lines were attached to
the cable car’s double-wheel cradle, which allowed the cabin to roll along the
main suspension line. As it got closer, Flynn could see the sweaty and pained
faces of the two drivers who were pushing on the pedals of the bicycle
contraption. He pitied the guys… Yes, they worked short shifts, had longer
breaks than most, but theirs was one hell of a tough job! Flynn waved his hand
and the cable car came screeching to a stop at the platform’s edge. He hopped
in and the car lurched forward, starting to move again.

The cabin was half
empty, with no more than a dozen passengers inside, but it reeked of their
unwashed bodies and hair. Flynn chose to sit closer to the open door where he
hoped the air would be fresher. There was an elderly man dozing quietly in the
seat next to him. Flynn stole a glance and recognized his face. It was Mr.
Chow! The man who made the best fish-skin shoes in the whole Lower Side…
Everyone wanted to get a pair from his stall at the market, only he couldn’t
make them fast enough to satisfy the demand. Flynn stared at his own feet. Today,
he was wearing a pair of Mr. Chow’s sturdy moccasins, a present from his father
for Flynn’s sixteenth birthday. Unlike the superb quality of his shoes, Mr.
Chow's own clothes were in a horrific state… even by Lower Side standards… His
colorless seal-skin coat had so many holes that it looked like he was draped in
nothing but a fraying fish net. Mr. Chow's bald head wobbled on his thin neck
as the cable car went swinging on its way to the next stop. His grubby, knotty
hands held on to a big fish-skin bag in his lap. Mr. Chow looked old and tired.
It occurred to Flynn that Mr. Chow could be on the List, too… and that there
was no one who would be taking over his trade… Both his sons had died when
their rubber dingy was sideswiped by one of the Van Zandt’s powerboats.

Suddenly, there
were loud gasps from the passengers behind Flynn. They were looking to the
right of the cable car. Flynn craned his neck for a better view and saw
immediately what had caused all the commotion. In the near distance, a
mid-sized roof tower had partially collapsed. It had fallen against an adjacent
tower. Luckily, this had stopped the first from falling all the way down into
the water… But there was already quite a lot of damage to both structures… Little
shack-like units had detached themselves from the main truss frames of the
towers and were hanging upside-down, dangling precariously over the waterway
below. The bridges and walkways surrounding the towers had also taken a hit.
With most now vertical, they were beginning to disintegrate before everybody’s
eyes. Rescue Crews and residents were moving like ants around all the carnage,
doing their best to help the survivors get out of harm’s way. Nothing new here,
Flynn thought… Nothing out of the ordinary for life on the Lower Side…After the
Trials, he would be living on the Upper Side where the buildings were solid and
safe. People didn’t live in such makeshift extensions. They all had apartments
with proper rooms and decent furniture. He had heard that the Upper Side even
had running water coming out of taps…   

By the time Flynn
had finished daydreaming of the life that awaited him, the cable car had moved
on. Now, he could see the silhouettes of the Pigeon Towers, shimmering ahead in
the morning sun. “Getting off at the next stop!” he shouted to the drivers as
he stood up.

The two men slowed
down on the pedals, applied the brakes, and the cable car came to a screeching
halt alongside another rooftop platform. Flynn hopped off, but he had made no
more than a few steps when a loud bang made him jump. He turned, just in time
to see the pulley cradle snap in half. It crashed onto the cable car’s roof and
tumbled into the canal down below. The cabin hung in mid air for a moment, then
lurched forward as its nose lost support and began to tilt. The shift in
gravity flung all the passengers toward the front.

Flynn watched in
horror as Mr. Chow rolled off his seat and slid out the open door. Somehow, the
old man managed to grab hold of the door step with one hand and stop his fall.

But Flynn knew
that Mr. Chow was still in grave danger, because his whole body was now outside
the cable car, dangling in mid air. 

Having run back to
the edge of the platform, Flynn threw himself flat on his stomach. He could see
Mr. Chow better and couldn’t believe that the man was still clutching his bag
with the other hand. “Drop the bag!” Flynn shouted, reaching out over the ledge.
“Give me your hand!”

Mr. Chow looked up
and their eyes met. He said nothing. The man just kept hanging there, staring
at Flynn.

"C'mon! Drop
your bag and grab my hand!" Flynn stretched his arm, his fingers now only
inches from Mr. Chow. He glanced at the old man's hand holding the doorstep. Flynn
could tell that his grip was weakening… he was losing his hold. Seconds later, Flynn
watched helplessly as Mr. Chow, still holding his bag, let go of the step and plummeted
toward his death. Flynn heard the faint splash when the man’s body hit the
water. “Damn it!” he cried and banged his fist on the platform. “Damn it!”