“I’m scared, Wally,” she said. “How’s the leg?”
He shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Just a scratch where the skin was thin. It’ll grow back quick.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get here in time to help Lucien. I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss you terribly, and I’m going to worry every second until I know you’re safe.”
“Me, too,” he said after a moment. “You’re gonna have your hands full with those kids. They ready? We can’t stay here; they’ll be coming back soon.”
Jerusha looked at the children. There were fifty-two of them; she counted. Twenty-nine had yet to be injected; eight had been given the virus but hadn’t yet turned their card. Fifteen were jokers who hadn’t yet been culled: the little girl whose body was studded with hundreds of fingers, complete with fingernails, like a porcupine made of severed hands; a boy whose lower half was a gigantic fish tail that needed to be kept constantly wet; a boy whose face was missing eyes, sockets, and nose, nothing but unbroken skin from his forehead to his mouth as if he were an unfinished sculpture; a girl whose skin pulsed and glowed a bright yellow…
Cesar had told her that sometimes they waited to make sure that the jokers didn’t have some power they’d missed. The children were all hungry, all abused, all frightened. They huddled in a group near a jungle trail leading away from the clearing, eating the breakfast she’d created for them, an amalgam of fruits from her seeds and some of the food in their kit. They’d stripped the mangoes from the were-leopard’s tree, all except those on the branch that held the Leopard Man’s head.
The children were watching the two of them uncertainly, as if they weren’t certain if they could trust their rescuers or if they might be led to something worse. She could hardly blame them. “Are we doing the right thing, Wally? Maybe… maybe we should stay together…”
Wally’s steam-shovel jaw clanged shut. “No,” he said. “I gotta do this, Jerusha. For Lucien.”
“Okay.” Jerusha put down the S.O. S pad and came around in front of him. She put her hands on either side of his face. Leaning in, she kissed him. The kiss was awkward, his mouth all cold iron under hers. His hands first went around her, then fell away, then came back again. “You stay alive for me, Wally,” she said. She had to stop, sniffing and wiping angrily at her eyes. She took his hand, pressing her small fingers against his. “And I’ll stay alive for you. Deal?”
“Okay,” he answered. He was staring down at her hand. “Jerusha, cripes, I…”
“Don’t say anything,” she told him. “It’ll just make this harder.” She leaned in toward him again. She kissed his forehead, then-again-his mouth. This time he responded, his arms going around her and hugging her. She held the embrace for several breaths, then pushed away from him. “It’s time,” she said.
Wally groaned to his feet. Jerusha looked at the kids. They were watching, but whatever they were thinking was hidden behind expressionless, hollow faces. She pulled the strap of the automatic weapon around her shoulder-one of the several abandoned by the child guards as they’d fled. A few of the older children had armed themselves as well. She wondered if she or any of the kids could actually use the weapons.
“It’s time to go,” she told the children in French. “We’ve got to get you out of here.” Cesar translated the French into Baluba. The children stood as Jerusha sighed. “This way,” she told them, and began walking toward the head of the trail leading east, toward Lake Tanganyika and-she hoped-Tanzania. As they passed the head of the trail, she tossed a handful of seeds onto the ground, bringing the new growth high enough to cover their tracks. Wally was watching her. She waved to him as the fronds lifted; he waved back to her as the lush greenery rose between them. When she could no longer see him, she turned eastward. The kids had gathered around her. She put her arms around the nearest of them.
“Come on,” she said. “We have a long walk ahead of us.”
16
Friday,
December 11
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The bus tour took them to the Kongoville University. Michelle hadn’t expected it to be so large, or so pretty. There were new buildings going up, and the older buildings were settled into beautiful tropical landscaping.
“KU is the premier university in the PPA,” the guide said in French-accented English. “The Nshombos believe that education is the most powerful tool against the repressive regime that once ruled here and against the tribal wars that once marred the unity of our nation.”
As the bus rolled by, book-toting students dressed in brightly colored patterned shirts and khaki pants smiled and waved at the tourists.
Michelle waved back. “Would it kill you to wave at them?” she asked Joey.
“I don’t give a shit about those fuckers,” said Joey. “Why the fuck would I wave at them?”
“Because it’s a nice thing to do.”
“Fuck that. I didn’t come to be nice to some fuckers I don’t even know. If I wanted to be nice I could have stayed in New Orleans.”
“We need to find a way upriver,” Michelle said suddenly. “That’s where we’ll find Adesina.”
“Yeah,” Joey said with a sigh. “This is the fifth fucking time you’ve told me.”
By the fourth stop, Michelle was beginning to regret going on the bus tour. They’d seen the renowned farmer’s market, the hospital, and the central sports complex. Everywhere they went, people smiled and waved at them. It was as if the entire population of Kongoville was eternally happy. It was downright weird.
And she was feeling oddly jet-lagged, even though they’d skipped the jet. Maybe it was just the muggy afternoon. When they climbed back into the bus, she slumped down into her seat. She would close her eyes for just a minute…
It’s dark in the pit. Nighttime again. She knows that Adesina is near, but she doesn’t want to crawl across the bodies to find her.
“I’m coming,” she says, but she doesn’t know if Adesina can understand her.
“Bubbles.”
How does Adesina know her other name?
“Bubbles.”
She’s confused, and then Adesina is grabbing her arm.
“ Jesus, Bubbles, wake the fuck up.” Joey was shaking her. “We’re here.”
She sat up groggily. “Where?”
“How would I know? Some fucking place or another.”
It was a tomb.
“This is Our Lady of Pain, the people’s martyr,” said the tour guide, once he’d led the group inside. “She is considered a saint by Dr. Nshombo. As you can see, she’s wearing the highest honor our country can bestow: the Golden Hero of the PPA. Sadly, she was murdered by the war criminal Butcher Dagon just a few short hours after receiving the commendation.”
Our Lady of Pain was laid out in a glass coffin. She was dressed in virginal white and there was a large gold medallion around her neck. Her body rested on red satin.
Michelle glanced at the corpse and suspected that it wasn’t an actual body, but a wax figure. But then Our Lady of Pain’s hand moved, and she had to keep herself from jerking backward. She heard a snicker behind her.
“Joey,” she hissed. “Cut that out.”
“No can do, boss. This is too much fun.”
The corpse shot Michelle the finger, and then Our Lady of Pain’s hand dropped back to the crimson satin pallet. Luckily, the rest of the tour was on the other side of the glass casket.
“Don’t do that again,” Michelle whispered. “Ever.”
“You’re no fucking fun at all,” said Joey.
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
The Airplane hummed and shook. Out the window, the ocean was a featureless darkness below them. The flight attendant-a Vietnamese woman who looked about twelve-passed by trying not to stare at the severed human head in the window seat on its cushion of bright green wasps. Bugsy felt the urge to yawn, but with his torso broken down, there was no breath behind it.
Nick, beside him, slapped at Ellen’s arm, pushed up the brim of the nasty swamp-water fedora, and scowled. Bugsy smiled apologetically and drew the stray wasp back into the pile. “Do you have to do that?” Nick asked.