Relics

RELICS

Jon Ray

Published by Language Monster Press

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Jon Ray

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: BENEATH THE CITY

ONE: NEW YORK

TWO: CORRECTIONS

THREE: THE HAMPTONS

FOUR: THE GARDEN

FIVE: THE PIT

SIX: THE BUNKER

SEVEN: CONTROL

EIGHT: RELICS

To descend into the underworld is easy;

The gates of hell are open night and day.

But to return, to climb back into brilliant skies —

What work, what a mighty labor it is!

— Virgil, The Aeneid

Prologue: Beneath the City

This was the dream. Marion shifted on his bench, asleep and alone, feeling the unsteady deck slip beneath his feet, the tight grip of a hand balancing him against the swaying of the ferry. His mouth moved silently, following the broken maze of his thoughts, praying a vague, half-remembered prayer.

Look, boy, why don’t you. It’s the last time you’ll get to see her, I can promise you that.

Marion had never been on a boat before, and never would be again. Perhaps that was why the dream was always so perfect, so far from the truth. In reality, the bay had stunk of chlorine, greenish strands of algae swaying gently beneath the pool-blue water, barely covering the concrete floor of the Hudson. The statue itself had already been half-removed by then, her streaked and chalky robe coming off in chain-winched sections. The blast site was still horribly visible; a furious dark wound torn into her right side, bent and blackened girders clawing outward, an unused and broken staircase marching toward the torch arm.

But in the dream, that distant memory, the water was rough and frothy, whipping the sides of the ferry. The statue was still proud, an imposing steel giant above them, and the wind rushed hard and salty against Marion’s lips. It was a false image, to be sure, but it felt truer than truth.

Can we go inside, Poppy?

The older man looks down, his sleek black hair dancing in streaks across his face. No, Marion, we can’t. It’s not safe anymore. Poppy didn’t like to argue. We can watch from here — that’s all. So you’d better look your fill.

Poppy was one of the few that Marion really remembered — the only one who had seemed like family. A doctor, government-issue like the rest, but also something more. He had been an imposing giant of a man; curt, sometimes unkind, but always solidly there. For Marion’s thirteen years at the Center, this was the only real constant — the closest thing to a father that the forgotten boy would ever have.

And so he had called him Poppy, saying the word as if he knew what it meant, trying to grasp the idea of a real father. Starting the day they first met — Poppy bursting into the orphan’s sixth birthday bash, toting a baseball and a crazy smile — Marion had attached himself to the man like fresh-spit gum to the sole of a passing shoe.

And in the dream Poppy smiles again, crouching over Marion, so much like that first day. You can remember this, Marion, he says, seeming taller than the statue itself, filling the dream with his shaggy hair and warm breath. You can always look back and remember this. He stands, his hands sweeping out over the artificial ocean. Another great symbol, destroyed by the foolish people who made it. He grins against the wind, watching the statue. But then, symbols are overrated, eh? Statues come and go, and still liberty remains. America will always be America, and Francia… well, the French will always be the French — nobody can stop that. He laughs, and the boat begins to rock wildly from side to side, the statue moving with it. My god, who would dare try?

And then it seems as though the earth itself is moving, the ferry cracking hard against the floor of the Hudson, the statue crumbling into its base. The boy is crying, watching himself cry, his skin lined with sleek, grimy tears. Without warning, the statue crashes toward them, a dark shadow sweeping across the boat like a bird of prey.

Marion struggled awake, the five o’clock commuter wave a distant rumble, pierced by the ominous squeal of an approaching 5 train. He blinked unhappily, wiping his face dry, the bleary outlines of busy people swimming in and out of focus. It’s coming, he realized, fumbling with the balled-up pillow of his jacket, the rapid staccato of the morning rush gradually filling the station around him. He pushed himself up, stumbling though the relatively thin crowd, still half-asleep, cursing himself for oversleeping. He was twenty meters away from his bench before he realized that he’d left his ratty bedroll behind.

No time. There’s no damn time.

Marion had staked out the southeast corner of Union Square specifically to avoid this nightmare. When it was warm outside he could stretch out on a park bench, or sleep on the scratchy fibregrass, but once it got chilly he had to rely on the cleaning crew to block off a chunk of the station for him. For security reasons, they erected a ten-meter barricade around the cop shop every night from midnight to five a.m. Conveniently, this area also contained one of the only sleepable benches in the entire system, so it was one of the few places where — as long as the crew recognized his face, and the third-shift transit cops weren’t in a bad mood — Marion could sleep largely undisturbed. Problem was, once they pulled the sawhorse perimeter and let the morning rush swarm in, the commuting apocalypse commenced.

This was the early morning Midtown-to-Wall Street crowd, after all: low-level analysts, secretaries, surly temp-job hipsters with hangovers, all taking their shift on the subway only because they had to. Marion knew that if these pinstripes and poseurs could bribe their way onto the Aerial, they would. As it was, facing the morning rush on the cattle cars was no better than battling a rampaging horde of Brightlanders — a swelling sea of humanity that was tired, angry, and out for blood.

Even as Marion yanked his windbreaker over his skinny shoulders and sprinted for the exits, he could see the ominous, unbroken wave of sample-sale suits pouring through the turnstiles, meshing seamlessly with the latte-toting hordes rolling off the L ramp, two serpentine tentacles merging into a single, spreading mammalian blob. The crowd oozed unstoppably forward, filling the station like a fast-moving glacier, cutting off all means of escape.

Dez, the morning guy at the shoe shine booth, spotted him and waved, his palm so permanently polish-black that it looked singed. Marion waved back weakly and spun around, realizing that it would be equally bad, if not worse, at the north end. As much as he hated to do it, he made a snap decision to hit the uptown N-R platform. There was a decent-size storage space under the escalator, hidden behind a safety panel cut into the new faux-stone facade. With luck, the cleaning crew would have failed to throw the deadlock as usual, allowing him to sneak inside and ride out the rush hour unmolested. He threw a last nervous look at the swelling commuter line, pivoted sharply and scrambled for the subway stairs.

Marion took the escalator at a running clip, barely looking, his jacket flapping behind him like a cape. For the first five steps he couldn’t even figure out what was happening, his brain still disoriented and woozy, functioning at half-speed. He just kept running against himself, beating his feet wildly against the rising stairs.

I’m not moving, he thought stupidly, a cartoon character spinning in place. And then his confused feet missed a step, almost tossing him down that grooved mountain of steel. He spun his arms backwards, long legs kicking furiously, his center of balance swinging back from disaster. And then, sudden and hard, he was splayed against the metal stairs, his teeth biting into his sleepy tongue. His small toolbox shot out of his jacket pocket, crashing open against concrete. A bright spray of tiny screwdrivers, transistors and wire snips flew across the terminal, bouncing merrily in all directions. Marion felt his body being dragged backwards, bumping over the foot guard, a few long hairs yanked painfully from his bruised head.

Who turned this goddamn thing on? Marion crab-walked backwards, furious and dumbfounded. He’d been sleeping in this station for five years, off and on, and he couldn’t recall the escalator working one single day — not one. Of course, it was all too typical that today, of all days, someone had actually gotten the stupid thing running.

As if on cue, the stairs jerked suddenly to a stop, frozen beneath the faint thunder and warm, rushing air of an approaching train. Marion rolled over and up, carefully running his hands along the ground, gathering as many of the delicate tools and electronics as he could. There were feet everywhere, it seemed, kicking hex wrenches, crushing small glass diodes beneath heavy boots. The metal case was useless, broken, the hinges torn in half. Marion cursed, shoveling the tools directly into his pockets, randomly grabbing tiny screws and resistors as he backed toward the stairs.

He took them three at a time, vaulting off the rubber handrail as the clattering of shoe leather and high heels swelled behind him. It was too late to hide now, though, no matter how hard Marion struggled against the flow. The commuters overpowered him at the platform, packed shoulders surging toward an approaching train. Marion felt his body being swept away from the wall, his fingers still struggling with the simple night latch.

Ten more seconds, he cursed silently, taking a stiff blow to the ribs as the crowd crushed relentlessly forward. Ten more seconds and a putty knife and I would’ve been fine.

He was crammed into the uptown N, and of course it wasn’t even a seating car. He protected himself as best he could, deflecting umbrellas and backpacks as he squeezed slowly toward the door. Twice he felt hands pressing against him, although he couldn’t tell if they were trying to grab his ass or his wallet, of which he had neither. He finally broke free at 34th Street, only to find himself sucked into a crowd pushing toward the orange line. His will finally broken, Marion decided to quit fighting and take whichever downtown train he could fit into — anything was better than dealing with the midtown crush. He ended up sardined into a downtown F, and finally managed to push his way out of the sweltering train at West Fourth, counting his meager blessings as the doors wheezed closed behind him.

The crowd pushed and cursed forward, dragging him steadily up and out, his feet occasionally lifted clear off the concrete. Finally, and with almost no conscious movement of his own, Marion found himself slowly surfacing into the air-cooled confines of New York City.

One: New York

The day had begun badly. As Marion scraped the crust of sleep from his bloodshot eyes, his feet floating over the filthy concrete stairs, he tried to shake the feeling that everything was off-kilter, out of sync. He felt trapped inside the faceless crowd as it pushed insistently onto New York Avenue; a melee of impatient elbows, messenger bags and bag lunches.

To make matters worse, the sun was still shorting out, for the second week in a row — fluttering above the skyline like a failing neon tube. The washed-out morning sky pulsed along with it, bathing the city in a faint, steady strobe. Overhead, the police walk was nearly empty, with just a single cop lounging over the corner of West Fourth, methodically munching on a cruller. He surveyed the crowd with bored indifference, the fingers of his left hand hooked lazily through the wire mesh. Above him, the Aerial wound up Sixth Avenue, as usual, its sleek shadow rippling over the morning crowds. Marion noticed that it was one of the new cars, crisp racing stripes and rounded windows gleaming above the plodding herd. They had recently tweaked the mag-tech, as well, so that the cars were now suspended much farther below the guidetracks, making the illusion that they were floating in mid-air even more disconcertingly pronounced.

Marion watched warily as the train passed in front of the pale sun. It was snaking slowly uptown, heading for the forest of glass and metal along Broadway; from Washington to Union Square, the Garden, Rock Center, Columbus and Lincoln, then a scenic swipe over Central Park before weaving back down Lex toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

Marion had ridden the Aerial, once, a long time back. After the expansion, almost ten years ago, there had been a day of open transportation, and people had waited in line all morning for the short ride above the city. Marion had snuck out of the Center and hiked up to Central Park, fighting the crowds, arriving just in time to witness the ribbon cutting. He’d spent a few excited hours in Columbus Circle, jostling toward the turnstiles, watching the suspended trains sliding in and out of the station above his head.

He still distinctly remembered that first queasy feeling, tugging angrily at his stomach as he shot up the fifteen stories toward the platform. He was crammed into the elevator, sandwiched between the operator’s stiff blue uniform and a rotund woman’s synthetic skirt, a fleshy prison that reeked of stale lavender and fresh sweat. The woman was staring down at him, shifting her massive hips beneath the warm floral print.

Whassa matter, honey? Never been up this high, huh? You all alone?

Marion twitched his head, a slight nod, and then backed into the elevator operator, who grunted and smacked him away.

S’all right, baby. Gonna be a fine ride. She smiled indulgently, pressing Marion’s head deep into her belly, where he could hear the faint gurgling of her bowels. S’gonna be just beautiful.

Beautiful or not, Marion had been terrified. From the moment the train doors hissed closed behind him, his legs threatened to collapse beneath the slight weight of his body. The fat woman insisted on holding him up to the tinted window, his nose pressed painfully against cold glass.

The Tram had shot quietly out over the distant Columbus monument, the rough concrete of the station rolling back to reveal the highest reaches of the Upper West Side. Beneath them, the park seemed no bigger than a putting green, artists and pedestrians clogging its footpaths like a thicket of ants in search of a picnic. Marion had instantly recoiled, his stomach churning, only to be pushed back roughly against the glass, smearing the view with his spittle.

Lookit that, the fat lady exclaimed. You can see alla way to Times Square!

But Marion couldn’t see anything except the dizzying space between him and the streams of people moving below. He struggled against his pulsing blood, twisting his rigid body between the woman’s clammy hands.

Hey, you kin see yourself. Say hello, junior! Wave! The fat lady was shaking his body like a party favor, dotting the window with grease spots from his forehead. The Tram was easing its way toward Lincoln Center, and the passengers were crowding the windows to see their faces reflected in the cracked, gunmetal-blue façade of the condemned Trump Tower. Marion caught only a brief glimpse of his own face, shock-white and terrified, before pulling away. Far below, Broadway swirled and eddied with weekend traffic; an intricate carpet of hats, scarves, and sculpted hair packed the street from edge to edge, filling the building-buffered gorge like heavy syrup. The bright green fibregrass was visible in thin strips through the shifting mass, emerald flashes inside a dark and drifting cloud.

At that point Marion had fainted, his limp body beating a dull staccato against the glass as the fat lady continued to make him wave.

Even here, from his relatively safe perspective on Sixth, the Aerial still made Marion shudder. As it turned sharply toward Washington Square and slipped from view, he swore he could see his own face pressed against the rear window, eyes rolling, small feet kicking in vain against flowered cotton.

What had brought that back? Marion glanced around him, barely feeling the flesh and fabric that crowded him on all sides. He was still moving downtown, past the basketball courts, his feet shuffling forward on autopilot. He swiveled his head, eyes jumping from student to secretary to street vendor, trying to get everything to match up as it should, but the image refused to gel. It remained a quiet blur — hundreds of faces marching down Sixth Avenue, pale skin flickering beneath the weak morning light, eyes staring rigidly forward, bored and blank as an army of Barbie dolls.

A small pocket of bohemian loudmouths jostled the crowd to Marion’s left, starting to peel away toward West Third. Marion caught a glimpse of NYU violet, a baggy sweatshirt and a backpack sporting a SOHO≠chinatown bumper sticker receding like a colorful beacon across that thick human sea. He jumped after it, knowing that it was his only hope. The pack was almost out of reach, but Marion made a concerted effort, fighting the flow of traffic as it angrily broke around him. He pivoted back and to the left, bouncing off a briefcase-toting lawyer and dodging a messenger bag as the commuters behind him muttered and cursed.

Hey, brat! Watch my valise! Marion dipped back and down, ducking beneath a dog leash, resurfacing amid the twenty or so students pushing their way through the crowd. Someone passed a joint across his face, humming loudly — a combination of sounds and smells that helped Marion relax for the first time that day.

Yo, people! someone yelled. Clear the way! America’s future coming through!

The scrawny Korean guy with the joint guffawed, blowing smoke into the crowd. Work’s canceled! he added, waving lazily. Everybody go home!

Marion stuck with the group until they had forged a few blocks along West Third and turned onto Thompson, plowing through the morning rush like a bulldozer. When everyone finally veered into the student center, Marion left them behind, heading toward the park. The Korean kid slapped his shoulder cheerfully as he left.

Hey man! We leave for lunch at twelve thirty — don’t be late. A couple of kids laughed, still passing the joint around, a sweet cloud of smoke dissipating into the crowd.

Work’s canceled! Free day! Clear the streets!

Marion smiled, edging across the street toward the sidewalk. The mob was thinner here, off the thoroughfare, but not by much. Marion turned off of Thompson, tightening his jacket around his waist, scuffing his sneakers through the dense synthetic grass carpeting the intersection. Now that had been popular for a while, during the election: the Central Park expansion, the replanting… city beautification and all that. At this point, people no longer seemed to notice. The crowd trudged across the fibregrass-filled streets just like they had trudged across black asphalt, flattening the industrial foliage into the ground, totally ignoring the synthetic beauty sprouting beneath their feet.

And then, just as Marion was studying the oily green blades, the sun winked out overhead like a blown bulb, sending him stumbling forward in the sudden darkness, smack into the hunched, suit-jacketed back in front of him.

Learn to walk, moron! The man looked around angrily, his outburst echoed by much of the crowd as they bumped and lurched along in the unexpected night.

Jesus! Watch your hands or I’m going to cut them off, sleazebag. Marion swerved away from the angry girl, not wanting to be mistaken for the perv who’d just copped a complimentary feel. He inched carefully ahead, trying to adjust to the darkness. The three-quarters moon helped a bit, swathing the street in a soft white glow, allowing the rush to continue on at a slackened pace. The pile-up gradually unwound, pushing forward amid jostling and muttered obscenities. Marion moved with the crowd, his body shoved forward by an unseen hand, his right foot pressed painfully beneath a spike heel.

A minute passed, and then another, before the sun finally snapped back on. It flashed awake with an audible pop, dousing the city in buttery light, shimmering slightly and even weaker than before. Marion looked around at the line of startled, blinking faces caught beneath the sudden glow, all vertigo and confusion. I see this every day, he thought, his pace quickening with the crowd. Why does it suddenly seem so alien? An old man with a hunchback crept up beside him, angling toward Washington Square.

Look, crap or get off the pot, okay? Marion stepped back, watching the man spit roughly into the grass as he sliced his way through the crowd. The flow of people moved with him, streaming down West Fourth, back toward Sixth Avenue.

Christ, Marion thought, I’m going in a giant circle. He considered jumping the barrier into the park, but decided against it. It would be easier to sneak back into the subway at Sixth, maybe hide out in the old newsstand until the morning rush had subsided. To be honest, Marion preferred to lounge underground, if he could — he enjoyed the ancient nooks and narrow spaces, the relative solitude of a world most folks tended to ignore. As the crowd heaved forward, Marion found himself pushed roughly against the giant support post that anchored the southwest corner of the park. He jerked his arm away from the gritty concrete, brushing sharp points of sand from his knobby elbow. Ahead of him, the crowd whirlpooled gracefully around the obstruction, extending in a smooth arc along the sidewalk, pushing out and back as they followed the contour of the post. Marion fell back into step, his shoulder grazing the rough, graffiti-covered surface of the pillar, his right elbow smarting. Against his better judgment, Marion gazed up at the massive structure, a 25-meter-round behemoth that shot straight up into the flickering sky, its top obscured by the stringy wisps of fake clouds that enshrouded the city. He felt a wave of dizziness and nausea, the mere contemplation of such heights roiling his stomach.

I hear the mayor wants to refinish them in some sort of Roman design, a plump, shiny man exclaimed, moving alongside Marion as they skirted the post. That’d be some kind of atrocity, eh? Huge Doric columns dotting the city, shooting up into the atmosphere… it makes one shudder just to think.

Marion looked over at the man, who was wearing a pastor’s black shirt and clerical collar, the sagging white strip stained slightly yellow beneath his double chin.

Lord knows, he’ll probably want Caryatids, the minister continued, smiling placidly at Marion as he talked. Humongous, big-breasted marble women holding up the sky… can you imagine?

Marion tried, but failed.

"Now if someone were to ask me…" the paunchy pastor gazed up at the sweeping width of the column, still lost in contemplation. Marion grabbed the chance to veer off, pushing into the crowd, dodging a coffee vendor who was leaning crookedly against his cart.

"Hey hey hey! You slow down, hear?" Marion glanced back, waving apologetically. The minister was, thankfully, nowhere to be seen. Marion wasn’t a big fan of human interaction, and this morning had already contained more than he could reasonably bear.

He took one last look up at the column, its crushing, solid weight towering over the morning chaos. Above the jostling heads of the crowd someone had scrawled a dripping WASHINGTON POST in bright red letters. Whoever the comedian was, he had obviously used a ladder — it was the last human mark before the enormous concrete pillar soared up into the washed-out sky and became a faint dark line, its infinite height mocking the stunted buildings below.

Whoa! Don’t scuff the shoes, kid. Marion whipped around yet again, pulling nose-to-nose with a shaggy bum holding a bouquet of wilted yellow roses. Pay attention, why don’cha? You gonna pay for these? Marion glanced down, confused, finding the man’s feet wrapped tightly in layers of newspaper and twine.

Yeah! Those cost money, ya know. They had been joined by a filthy old woman, her face haphazardly painted with what looked like finger paint, her skeletal figure draped in a torn nightdress. The passing commuters instinctively avoided the scene like rapids fanning around a rock. Marion followed their lead, backing away from the couple, merging deftly with the crowd as they continued crosstown. As he pulled free, Marion saw the bum smiling shyly at the old woman.

I brought you some flowers.

The shaking voice faded, disappearing beneath the long shadow of the column. Why he was so drawn to that damn support today, Marion couldn’t say. After all, he passed at least one of those ugly posts every day; even slept next to one, sunk deep against the Union Square station. But today the sight of the Washington Square column had struck him as misplaced and frightening, somehow — it seemed especially broad and ominous, while the thousands of souls scurrying beneath its bulk seemed impossibly oblivious to the dark weight looming overhead.

Marion pulled angrily off to one side, squeezing through the ranks of the working wounded, seeking some sort of refuge. What the hell was wrong? It was like looking at a word you’ve written all your life and finding a foreign language. The letters were all there, but it simply was not right. Marion finally wrested himself free of the crowd just past the Methodist church, scurrying down into a little alcove he’d never really seen before, turning to watch the solid wall of commuters as they rushed obliviously by.

He had overslept — that’s where it had all began. He’d been dreaming that stupid dream, woken up late, and almost been crushed beneath the subway mob. He rarely overslept, and certainly never got caught in the morning rush, not like this. It had started there, and the day had simply progressed from bad to worse. Marion checked the stream of pedestrians, watching for an opening in the blur of cloth and swinging hands, resolving to sneak back underground as quickly as possible. All it would take was a quick, brutal walk to the subway, and then he could return to his life of quiet subterranean safety.

At least he was next to a church, Marion noted hopefully — maybe someone would be charitable and let him through. He glanced over his shoulder and quickly took in the door behind him, a wrought iron affair covering milky glass. Hung haphazardly at eye level, a weathered plastic sign proclaimed Religious Books and Novelties. Marion felt a sudden sinking panic tighten his stomach.

Well look, there you are! I thought perhaps I had lost you. The porcine pastor popped out of the passing crowd like a cork, wiping oil and sweat from his sizable neck with a tiny handkerchief. He stepped carefully down the small staircase, brandishing a huge brass keychain in his right hand. I do hate this morning bustle, let me tell you.

Marion looked around nervously, caught between the door’s cold ironwork and the minister’s impressive belly. He tensed his legs to rush forward, wanting no part of this weirdo’s religious routine. Morally, he had no qualms about spilling the good father on his fat keister, if need be.

There’s definitely something different about today, the minister remarked cheerfully, his matter-of-fact tone freezing Marion mid-pounce. Have you noticed?

After a brief pause, filled only with the stomp and shuffle of the busy street, Marion finally gave a wary shake of his head, still struggling with his fight or flight instinct. The minister shrugged, his keyring jangling loudly as it scraped against the lock.

Something oddly out of place this morning, mark my word. He pushed the door open with one doughy hand, winking at Marion as he stepped inside. Could be the apocalypse. Would you like to come in?

Marion hesitated, throwing one last look at the crowd behind him. The thick parade of people flowed steadily toward New York Ave., and Marion could see the deluge from the subway still pouring out across the grassy avenue.

Didn’t like that blackout one bit, either, the minister continued, shambling toward the back of his shop. Bad omen, that.

Marion ran his fingers through stringy hair, knowing that he should listen to his suspicious brain and quickly effect an escape. And yet, even though he was completely convinced it was a huge mistake, he found himself inexplicably turning his back on the crowded street and wedging his body through the half-open door.

Allison swore softly into her headset, repeatedly stabbing at the gummed-up autodial as the dead line buzzed annoyingly into her ear. Her console had been acting up all morning, undoubtedly courtesy of her alcoholic counterpart on the night shift, who had a habit of spilling her vodka-and-cranberries all over the console. Whatever the reason, she was getting more than a little sick of fighting with the sticky buttons.

"Sst! Allie! Allison looked up gratefully, happy to see Joanne winding her way through the center, holding a couple of coffees above her bandanna-clad head. Hey, could you move?" Joanne scowled at one of the new temps, kicking his knee out of the aisle as she squeezed between desks. The lounger, as usual, didn’t even glance up from his monitor.

Need help? Allison swiveled in her chair, finally silencing her bleating phone by yanking the headset plug from the base.

No, I’m okay. Joanne paused, scanning the crowded room for passage. Just pull me out if I sink beneath the facelift floodline, okay? Allison laughed, watching several tight and unsmiling faces turn in glaring disapproval.

So, what’s up? Allison carefully cradled her coffee, twisting her mouthpiece out of the way to drink. Joanne pressed her way into the tiny cubicle and squatted, leaning against the next station.

Sun’s out.

Allison grimaced. I should’ve known — it’s been that kind of day. How long?

Joanne held up two fingers in a shaky peace sign, sipping her coffee. Couple of minutes, maybe. Might be back on by now.

Allison blew angrily into her hot drink, brandishing her middle finger. To the god of Con Ed.

Amen, sister.

They caffeinated themselves in silence for a moment, the hushed murmur of a hundred cold calls stirring the stale air around them.

So, Joanne finally said, tucking one stringy brown bang back into her head scarf, are you coming tonight?

Coming? Where?

You know, to the thing.

Oh. Allison picked at her phone pad, scrapping a mysterious black crust off the speaker grill. What is it again? Dyckman House?

No, not Dyckman House. Joanne sighed, exasperated. Dyckman House is gone, Allie. They leveled it last month.

"What? Why didn’t you tell me?"

I did, Joanne said, obviously trying to keep her annoyance in check. You missed the rally because your neighbor’s cat was sick.

Oh, crap. Allison glanced around guiltily. They really knocked it down?

Yes, they did. Manhattan’s last farmhouse is now New York’s largest tanning parlor.

God, Joanne, I’m so sorry.

Joanne shrugged, nibbling the edge of her paper cup. Don’t be. It’s not your fault.

"But Dyckman House. I mean, Christ, is nothing sacred?"

Apparently not. So are you coming tonight?

Allison squinted, tapping her foam-covered mouthpiece against her forehead. So what is it again?

It’s a direct action and speaker series at the Center.

"The Medical Center?"

Joanne groaned, rubbing her neck. Yes, deary. The very scary New York Science Advisory and Medical Research Center. I only gave you the flyer like a week ago.

Well, yeah, I know. Allison fidgeted, tipping back in her chair, knocking against the padded cubicle wall. But I’m just not sure if I…

What? Joanne snapped. Care enough to go?

Allison sighed. C’mon, Joanne, don’t lecture me.

"Look, I’m sorry. But you know what they do."

Well, they do a lot of things, okay? Allison thumped her chair back to earth. I mean, low income preventive care, for one. Exams, physical therapy, reproductive health services…

"Allie, they pay women for fetal tissue. They buy flesh. Joanne couldn’t quite suppress one of her infuriating smirks. Or were you getting to that?"

I know, Joanne, all right? Allison went back to fiddling with her phone, tracing the codes with a gnawed-on fingernail. "But, you know, it’s not like they’re out there handing fistfuls of cash to pregnant women on the street. They just subsidize the procedure, right? And then only a tiny fraction of the cells are ever used, so you don’t even know if you’re ever going to get a reimbursement check. Besides, if someone really needs an abortion…"

"Allie, the government is putting a price