“You’re rescuing me?”
Beth winked and looked over Zelda’s shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Who am I?” Annette was indignant. “Who are you?”
“It’s Annette,” Zelda whispered, squeezing Beth’s tense back.
“Oh shit.”
“What’re you whispering about?”
“We have to take her,” Beth said with distaste.
Annette laughed weakly. “I’m not going anywhere except to the police. This is an illegal act.” She put her hands on her hips, scolding Zelda. “You can’t help being a criminal, can you?”
Beth covered the distance to the window in three quick steps and punched Annette in the jaw, who slid against the wall into an unconscious seated position
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Zelda said.
Beth winked again, draping Annette over her shoulders and hurrying out the door. They took the back staircase, ducking into an alcove as more Blue Shirts rushed past. Beth paused by the back door.
“It’s going to be noisy.”
The clanging alarm finally faded as they ran down East 162nd Street to a parked black van with gold lettering, Basil Hayden’s Funeral Home. Wearing a dark workmen’s uniform, Mickey hopped out of the driver’s seat, kissed Zelda quickly and opened the back door, wonderingly taking Annette.
Two coffins lay in the back. The lid on the smaller one popped open.
“Hola, Zelda!” Clary waved happily.
Zelda burst into tears and hugged the child.
“No time for that,” Beth said sternly, helping Mickey lay Annette into the adult coffin. Clary hissed in recognition.
“Try not to suffocate.” Beth kissed Zelda on the forehead as she squeezed next to Annette, then joined Mickey in the front seat. “Sure you can drive?”
Mickey shrugged. “Only been a hundred years. Like riding a bike.”
By the time they edged onto the emergency lanes, trailing fire trucks and cop cars and repair vehicles, the lights started trickling back in parts. It was hard to say if the fans standing on the car roofs were watching the glow of Yankee Stadium or the stumbling reawakening of the Bronx’s electrical grid system. Either way, there was loud music and food and wonderment at the carnival of surprises.
Once past Burnside Avenue, they slowed down at a snake-like checkpoint near 188th Street. A bug-eyed Blue Shirt in need of a nap peered inside as Mick rolled down the window.
“Evening, sir.” Mantle smiled. “Big night.”
The cop made a face. “I could write a book. You’re in the wrong lane.”
“We got turned around near the stadium.”
“Who hasn’t?” The Blue Shirt gratefully rested his elbows on the window. “You have to get back in the civilian lanes.”
The cars were backed up for miles on either side.
“We got some stiffs,” Mick explained.
Beth handed over the papers from the funeral home authorizing the transportation of two corpses. The Blue Shirt held up the documents, vainly looking for a light to read by. He gave up. “Picked a helluva night.”
“Bet they’re unhappy, too,” Mick quipped.
A faint groan snuck into the front seat. The Blue Shirt frowned.
“What’s that?”
“They just died.”
The cop rapped his nightstick on the side view mirror and followed them around to the back of the van.
Beth held her breath as Mick opened the door. The Blue Shirt shined his flashlight over the adult and child-sized coffins.
“Mother and daughter,” Beth said softly.
The Blue Shirt apologetically tipped his cap. “I got two daughters. One husband.” He closed the back door and scribbled on the back of a slip. “Stay in the emergency lane. Anyone gives you grief, show ‘em Sergeant Pine said it’s okay.”
They drove a little quicker, hitting the Major Deegan and finding the lane nearly empty as all the emergency vehicles poured the other way into the city. After a few twists and turns along dark country roads, they pulled into a clearing, turning off the engine, killing the lights and waiting.
“Know these people?” Mick jerked his head toward the dark woods.
“No,” Beth said quietly. “Mooshie does. It’s either this or they keep running. There’s nowhere to go.”
“This used to be our world,” Mantle said.
“It’s awfully small if you’re a loser.”
Mick bristled. “America ain’t a bunch of losers.”
“We convinced ourselves we were, Mick. That everything we did was wrong. Hateful. That people wanted us dead because of what we did, not because of what they wanted. We were the bad guys by defending ourselves. By the time we realized hey, we’re not perfect, but we’re not all bad, it was too late.”
Mantle brushed away a tear. “You can’t lose a country just like that.”
She tenderly squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s still out there.”
Four hooded figures brandishing rifles motioned for them to raise their hands as they stepped out. Mick and Beth were quickly frisked. A slight figure circled a match around their faces and nodded approval to his colleagues. He pocketed the spent match.
“In the back.” Beth indicated with her head.
Mick unlocked the door while Beth crawled inside and rapped on the coffin lids. Clary popped up, gasping a little, and leaped out as if she had wires under her armpits. Zelda was stuck; Beth tugged her out, then they lifted out the still groggy Annette.
The guards let them lower their hands.
“You disfigured my mouth,” Annette yelled at Beth, who handed Zelda and Clary water bottles.
“There’s supposed to be only two,” said a tall guard, more to his colleagues.
“She was on site and had to be extracted,” Beth explained.
“Kidnapped.” Annette stepped forward. “I’ve been kidnapped by these, these criminals. A baseball player yet,” she sneered at Mick. “Big surprise. I insist you bring me to the local police station so I can file a full report.”
The guards looked at each other, trying to sort out whether Annette was kidding or crazy.
“I will overlook any assault charges.” She nodded graciously toward Beth. “I think that’s fair under the circumstances.”
The tall guard cocked his rifle. “We’re only supposed to take two. Her and her. Not her.”
“She’s a witness,” Beth said, voice rising. “We had to take her.”
“I understand, ma’am. Now she’s our responsibility.”
“Excellent,” Annette piped up as if she’d just filled a large, expensive shoe order. “If someone has some aspirin please.”
Zelda
