They held hands, but neither had anything to say. Despite their mutual joint pains, their headaches, and their blotchy patches of red skin, they had not been considered at severe risk. They’d been given oxygen. It had helped, but Julia’s condition was much more serious, so was her mother’s, so they were taken for immediate treatment. James and Hu would have to wait awhile for further attention. If at all.
“Triage,” someone had explained, not understanding why Hu and James had exchanged a look.
But it was obvious now. Sooner or later, everybody is triage.
They both hurt all over. Hu had thought to dump the contents of their medicine cabinet into his backpack. They had ibuprofen and it helped—a little. Just not enough. They were going to have to walk this off and wait it out.
The wide lawns in front of the observatory were filled with tents, tables, and bustling emergency workers. The parking lot in front of that was filled with more tents and more crowds of people. The only open area was a space set aside for helicopters to land and take off. A fuel truck waited nearby. Several television vans were parked on the grass.
A Red Cross tent had been set up where people could get coffee and donuts and even some packaged meals, but despite their growing hunger, neither James nor Hu felt like eating. They were still too uncomfortable.
A young black woman came up to them, carrying a tablet. Her badge identified her as some kind of city official, James couldn’t read it. He was still having trouble seeing clearly.
“Have you been logged in?” she asked, holding up the tablet.
James shook his head.
“We’re trying to assemble a roster of survivors. You were in the Wiltern building?”
“No. We were in the subway. We came up the fire stairs of the Wiltern building—”
She looked puzzled. “How did you do that?”
“SCUBA,” said James. He was still holding his facemask. He held it up as if that was the only explanation he needed.
“Um, okay,” she said, not quite sure what he meant, but it didn’t matter anyway. “Your names?”
“James Liddle. Hu Son.”
The young woman was wearing a headset. She repeated their answers to her headset, checking that the tablet properly translated her speech to text.
“Address?”
“Nowhere now,” said James.
“Venice Beach,” said Hu. He told her their address, but it was meaningless now.
The woman asked a few more questions: Email addresses, cellphone numbers, Social Security numbers, birth dates, and preferred gender identification. Finally, “We’re going to try to find you a place to stay. I can’t promise that you’ll be together—”
James held up Hu’s hand in his own. “He’s my husband. We stay together.”
She didn’t blink. She referred to her tablet. Apparently it was connected to some master database somewhere. She looked up. “Do you have any documentation?”
James held up his left hand, showing the ring. “Is this good enough?”
“Um, I’m sorry. No. We’ve had people trying to lie to us.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.” She looked annoyed. “The relief benefits are different for married couples—”
Hu interrupted. He was already fumbling in his backpack, pulling out a dry bag. “Does a marriage license count?” He had a sheaf of papers, all safe inside three concentric Ziploc bags. He sorted through the papers, passed one over.
She took it, looked at it, shook her head, and passed it back. “It’s not signed—”
“We were supposed to get married today. We would have been on our way to—to our honeymoon.”
James said, “Is there a judge up here? Or a minister? Someone who can sign this?”
“Uh—” She looked confused. “Let me check.” She walked away, already pulling her phone out of her pocket.
Hu said, “Well, that’s—”
“—fucked.” finished James.
It was all too much.
James turned away, leaned on the stone railing, not wanting to look at anyone or anything anymore. But there it was—the muddy sea of Bayla and its broken towers. He tried hard not to give in to his rage. But—it was all too much. Everything was gone. Everything. He had nothing. No words. No feeling. He was numb.
He had the clothes on his back, whatever was still attached to his tool belt, a diving watch that had stopped, an expensive dive computer he never wanted to see again, a half-empty backpack, and for some reason, he was still holding onto his facemask, afraid to let it go, even up here.
And Hu.
He still had Hu.
But… he had nothing else. Nothing left to give. Nothing for Hu. Nothing for anyone. He was empty. Scraped raw. Numb.
He had finally hit bottom.
Hu stood next to him, silent. He put his hand on James’ shoulder, but James didn’t react, didn’t even acknowledge the touch. Finally, Hu reached out to take the facemask from him, but James pulled it back.
“Jimmy—? Talk to me. Please?”
James didn’t respond. He looked at the mask—as if seeing it for the first time, an ugly reminder of everything he would never see again. It was a useless appendage. He might as well throw it away and have nothing left at all. Without thinking, he lifted his arm, poised to throw it over the edge of the railing and down to the rough hillside below.
But Hu grabbed his wrist and stopped him—
“Jimmy, no—”
As if startled awake, James looked to Hu. “What—?”
Hu took the mask, turned it around and held it up to show something to James. “Did you know your camera was on?”
“It’s automatic,” James said. He took the facemask from Hu. A pair of fisheye lenses were mounted above the glass, one on each side of the two headlamps. They were designed for capturing virtual-reality 3D video. James frowned at the readout on the left side of the mask. “Hmph,” he said. “Looks like it recorded everything from the moment the water hit—”
“Really?”
“I’d have to pull the card, but yeah—”
Hu cut him off. “Jimmy, maybe we could sell that footage to someone? Some news channel? Or maybe even Nova? Someone? It might be worth something—”
James shook his head. “I doubt it. Everybody will have footage. Every survivor with a phone. And probably a few thousand amateur drones as well. There’s going to be more video than anybody will have time to review.”
“But nobody has underwater footage of the subway—”
James stopped in mid-sentence. Hu was right. He started to agree, then stopped abruptly. “No. We can’t.”
“Huh? Why not?”
James put his hand to his belt, touched his knife.
Hu’s eyes followed. “Oh,” he said, realizing what James meant.
“Squeak—I killed a man—”
“It was self-defense—”
“No. It wasn’t. It was deliberate—”
“We could talk to a lawyer—”
“Christine retired, remember the party—”
“She could recommend someone. Maybe Suzanne? Or Cindy?”
James didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah, maybe. But—”
“But—?”
“But—that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“I killed a man, Hu. That’s murder. I committed a murder—”
“Jimmy—”
“And I did it without thinking. I did it so easy—”
“You didn’t have a choice. You did it to save me—”
“—and I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. But—”
Hu understood it—James was in pain. A lot of pain, and most of it wasn’t physical. Hu wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. “Bubble—?”