A Better World

CHAPTER 14

Breath blowing white, Ethan sorted cans.

Their kitchen had a pantry, a fact that still blew him away. A room specifically to store food? What a novelty! What a luxury! In Manhattan, the pantry would have been rented out as an efficiency apartment. He was pretty sure he’d lived in one.

The power had been out for twenty hours now, and the house was cold. He wore two sweatshirts and fingerless gloves. It was funny how few cans of food had actual food value: tomato paste and pineapple slices and water chestnuts and chicken broth. All things a cook might need, and none of them a meal. He reorganized, putting the most useful on one shelf. Black beans, cannellini beans, lima beans. Soup, especially the heartier varieties. A couple of cans of coconut milk; not exactly haute cuisine, but each one packed almost a thousand calories, and the high fat content would help keep them warm. Below that went the pears and fruit cocktail and green beans. Fewer vitamins than fresh produce, but better than nothing. Pasta and rice. Finally, baking supplies, flour, sugar, cornmeal. Without power they couldn’t bake, but they could mix a cold gruel from them if things got tight.

“She’s down,” Amy said from behind him. “I’m going to start with the water.”

Ethan stood, stomped his feet to get some circulation moving. “Okay. Fill everything we’ve got. Glasses, vases, buckets, empty cans—”

“The bathtub. I got it.”

“Thanks.”

Ethan spotted a pack of birthday candles and added them to the pile on the counter. A box of tapers, three half-burned pillars from the bedroom, and eleven, no, twelve birthday candles. Three flashlights and a handful of batteries. Best not to waste them; they’d have to start keeping sunlit hours. No reading before bed.

They’d built a small fire in the fireplace, and he knelt to warm his hands, flexing stiff fingers. Debated tossing on another couple of logs and decided against it. They didn’t have much firewood.

There’s always the furniture.

Next up, the fridge. They were both foodies and usually had it well-stocked. But it had been six days since the stores were cleaned out, and they’d run through most of their fresh food already. The crisper had a couple of apples, a grapefruit, and half a bag of arugula, the bottom leaves already slimy. Normally he’d have tossed it all out; now he just picked through it, keeping all but the worst pieces. There was some leftover pad thai, two inches of orange juice, and a whole lot of condiments.

The freezer had already lost most of its chill, the ice sloshing in the trays, packages of hamburger and chicken softening around the edges. A couple of no-longer-frozen pizzas. Ethan sighed, started pulling it all out.

Filling glasses at the sink, Amy said, “We could put the food outside.”

“How cold you figure it is?”

“Maybe forty-five?”

Hmm. That was probably about the temperature of a working refrigerator. Putting the meat outside would buy them a couple of days at best. “It’d last longer if we could cook it.”

“I told you we should have gone for a gas stove.” She smiled, then said, “Hey, wait. The grill.”

Ethan laughed, then swept her into a hug. “Good thinking.”

He was a purist when it came to grilling, charcoal or nothing. It was an easy argument to make when life was normal, but now he really wished he’d gone for propane. He dug around in the garage, found half a bag of Kingsford. He poured it all in the chimney, packed the bottom with newspaper, and set it aflame. A chilly wind blew from the west, sending white smoke in his face, but the charcoal caught.

Back in the kitchen, he cut open the packages of meat. Two pounds of flank steak, four chicken breasts, a pound of hamburger. He formed the ground beef into patties, then started to cut the steak into quarter-inch strips.

“Stir-fry?”

“Jerky,” he said. “I’ll boil water for the pasta, then cook the chicken and burgers, and finally do the pizzas. That’ll about finish the charcoal, but if we hang these strips on the rack, they’ll still dry out in a couple of hours. And jerky lasts for weeks.”

“Nice.” Amy straightened, put her hands on her lower back, and leaned, the vertebrae popping. “Man, what I’d give for a hot shower.”

“Don’t even,” he said. Out the window, the afternoon was fading. Clouds hung low and oppressive, and wind tossed the trees.

Inventoried, the food seemed like plenty to keep them going. But he knew that if they ate normally, it would be gone in no time. He thought of the grocery runs they used to make, the cart filled to the brim, a dozen bags to unpack, and yet they’d visited the store almost weekly.

We’ll have to start rationing. Stretch it out, drink a lot of water. Ladies and gentlemen, the American way has been temporarily suspended.

Which was fine. One of the benefits of living in the richest country in the world, there was a wide margin between normalcy and starvation. But still, what happened when they ran out? Could things go on that long?

And what about the people who don’t have even this much? Somehow he didn’t think they would quietly starve.

“I don’t believe them,” Amy said.

“Huh? Who?”

“The soldiers. You said they were locking down the city so the terrorists couldn’t get out. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No.”

“There’s something they’re not telling us.”

Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door. The sound made them both jump. He’d never realized how noisy American silence was until all the gadgets died.

“Stay here,” he said, then walked to the front door. Ethan put a hand on the knob, then caught himself. It’s a new world. He glanced through the peephole.

Jack Ford stood on the porch, along with two guys from the neighborhood watch meeting. The engineer, Kurt, and Lou, the guy who had asked what his problem was.

He opened the door. “Hey.”

“Hi, Ethan.” Jack smiled, held out his hand, and they shook. “How are you?”

“Oh, we’re taking stock.”

He meant it with multiple layers, but Jack heard it literally. “Smart. Important to know how your provisions hold up. Hey, did I see you packing the truck last night?”

“Yes.” An image popped in his head, Jack walking window to window, a shotgun in one hand as he peered through the blinds. Keeping an eye out for bad characters. “We were headed to Chicago to stay with Amy’s mom. National Guard turned us back.”

“I’ve heard. I’ve got a generator, been running it in intervals to charge our electronics and watch the news. They’re saying that the city is locked down while the government hunts the Children of Darwin.”

Ethan nodded. Waited. The three men looked at each other.

Jack started to speak, but Lou beat him to it. “You know that Ranjeet pretty well?”

“Sure, we’ve had dinner a couple of times. Nice guy.”

“We were thinking we might go talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Government says that they’re looking for abnorm terrorists. Thought we might help out.”

“Come on. Ranjeet is a graphic designer.”

“No, hey, you misunderstand,” Jack said. “We know he’s not a terrorist. But he is an abnorm.”

“So he probably knows terrorists?”

“Maybe he knows someone who’s been acting weird.”

“Abnorms hang out together,” Kurt said. “I’m an engineer, believe me, I know lots of them.”

Jack ignored him, said, “The government has a tip line for people to call in with anything suspicious. And since there’s really nothing else to do right now, we figured, what’s the harm?”

Sure. What’s the harm in a whole city of hungry, scared people deciding to go terrorist hunting? “I don’t think so.”

“Forget it,” Lou said. “I told you he wouldn’t be up for it.” The man cleared his throat, turned, and spat into the bushes. “Let’s go.”

Jack didn’t move, just stood there with his hands at his sides. Ethan had the sense the man was trying to make a point, to let him know something. Jack was the de facto leader of the neighborhood now, the guy everyone turned to. Was he asking Ethan to join? Threatening him, vaguely? Or just suggesting that if people like Ethan weren’t in, it made people like Lou all the stronger?

“Why don’t you go with them, hon?”

Amy was out of sight of the men on the porch, and her concerned expression belied the lightness in her voice as she spoke loud enough for them to hear. “Go ahead, I can handle the grill. Just give me a hug first.” She raised her arms.

Ethan glanced at Jack, then at her, then stepped into her embrace. In his ear she whispered, “Ranjeet has two little girls.”

Of course. He whispered, “I love you.”

“Ditto. Be careful.”

He nodded, stepped back. “Let’s go.”

The Singhs’ house was painted a cheerful yellow and fronted by flowerbeds lying fallow in the November cold. The walk there had taken only a minute, but it had seemed longer, dynamics bouncing invisibly between the group. Lou had led the way, a sense of purpose to his stride that made it almost a stomp. Jack and Ethan walked just behind, and at one point his neighbor had looked over at him, another inscrutable glance like he wanted to say something, though he didn’t. Kurt had trailed like an eager puppy.

They paused on the sidewalk in front of the house. Lou shifted from foot to foot. Ethan pictured the scene from Ranjeet’s perspective: four men clustered ominously outside, exchanging glances. Imagined how he would have felt, the subconscious middle-school certainty every person had that any group was looking at them, that every laugh was directed at their weakness. This is a bad idea.

Forcing a light tone, he said, “What are we waiting for, guys?” He started up the walk. He pressed the bell—nothing, right—then knocked. After a moment footsteps approached, and then the deadbolt snapped.

Ranjeet saw him first and smiled, the expression calcifying when he saw the other men. “Hey,” he said. “The neighborhood watch. You catch any bad guys?”

Lou bristled, but Ethan said, “Nope, all clear. How are you doing?”

“Wishing we’d left for Florida.”

“I hear you. We tried for Chicago, got turned back.”

“Strange days.” Ranjeet’s eyes skipped past him to the others, then returned. “So what’s up?”

“We come in?” Lou asked.

Ranjeet hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob. “Yeah, sure.” He stood aside and gestured them in.

A short entrance gave way to the living room, a stylishly decorated space painted a precise shade of white. Two modernist couches were arranged on a yellow shag rug, and a book lay open atop a delicate glass table. There were toys scattered across the floor like they’d rained from the sky, stuffed animals and stacking cups and a xylophone. The sight of them gave him a flash of their future, Violet someday tottering around the house leaving a trail of toys in her wake, and the thought made him glow. “Where are the girls?”

“Upstairs. Eva is trying to convince them that it’s nap time.”

Ranjeet didn’t offer them a seat, just put his hands in his pockets and waited. The four of them stood uncertainly in front of him. It was as cold inside the house as out, their breath fogging.

Ethan caught Jack looking at him, shrugged. This was your idea, man.

“Your place is really nice,” Jack said, a bit awkwardly. “Sharp.”

“Thanks. What’s up?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard the news lately, with the power—”

“We’ve got a radio and batteries.”

“So you know that the government is asking all of us to pitch in. There’s a tip line to report anything.”

“Like what?”

“You know.” Jack shrugged. “About the Children of Darwin.”

Ranjeet made a sound that wasn’t a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

Jack spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We’re not saying anything like that. We just wondered if maybe you’d—”

“Hung out with terrorists?”

“No, just . . . had any friends that were acting strange.”

“Yeah,” Ranjeet said, looking at Ethan. “You four.”

“Listen, I know how this sounds,” Jack said, trying for a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry to ask, but we’re all worried. Things are getting bad.”

“Really, genius? What tipped you off?”

“Now I don’t mean any offense—”

“You don’t mean any offense? You come to my house with a posse and ask if I know terrorists, but you don’t mean offense?”

“Ranjeet—” Ethan started, but his friend interrupted him.

“No, it’s okay. You got me. I’m a criminal mastermind. My cover story is that I design corporate logos, but really I spend my evenings hijacking trucks. It’s easier for me, you know, the dark skin. I’m half invisible at night.”

“Let’s stay cool,” Ethan said. Ranjeet seemed oblivious to how tense everyone else was, how tired and scared. It was one thing to put on a brave face when the supermarket shelves were empty, but when there was still no food a week later, and the power was out, and the army had quarantined the city, and the weather was growing colder, and Thanksgiving dinner would be canned beans, that was something different. The social contract was straining at the seams, and righteous as Ranjeet’s anger might be, it was the wrong response right now. “No one is making any accusations. We’re all—”

“Why do you have this?”

Lou had gone to the coffee table and picked up the book Ethan had noticed earlier. He held it up so they could all see the cover. I Am John Smith.

Ah, shit.

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you have this?”

“You want to borrow it?”

“Last time I’m asking. Why do you have this?”

Ranjeet gave a thin smile. “I told you. I’m a terrorist.”

“Lou, it’s a free country,” Jack said. “It’s just a book.”

“Yeah, a book by a murderer.”

“He was framed,” Ranjeet said. “If you caught the news every now and then, you’d know that. The government has dropped all charges against him.”

Lou started reading where Ranjeet had left off. “ ‘Here is a simple but ugly truth. Our politicians see us as little more than a medium to maintain their power. We are gasoline for an engine of corruption and selfishness. The men steering the nation care no more for us than you care for the gasoline you put in your car—gasoline which is consumed without a thought, so long as it gets the driver where he wants to be.’ ” He shut the book. “That sound American to you?”

“Yeah,” Ranjeet said. “It sounds right on the nose.”

Lou shook his head in disgust. “I was a marine. My father was a marine. He fought in Vietnam to keep this kind of crap out of our country.”

Ranjeet laughed. “Is that why you think we were in Vietnam?”

“What are you saying?” Lou stepped forward.

“Guys.” Ethan looked at Jack. His neighbor didn’t move. “This is ridiculous—”

“You saying I’m stupid? That my father was stupid?” The man was squaring up, his gaze hard and chest out. He was four inches shorter than the abnorm but sported the barrel chest and thick arms of a weightlifter. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Ranjeet’s eyes darted, but he stood his ground. “Enough. It’s time for you to leave.”

“You people.” Lou sucked air through his teeth. “You all think you’re so goddamn smart. So much better than us.”

Ethan stepped forward. “Come on, man.” He put a hand on Lou’s shoulder. The man shrugged it off.

“Which people?” Ranjeet asked, fire coming into his own voice. “Brilliants? Indian-Americans? Graphic designers?”

“Such a smart-ass.” Lou held the book in one hand and tapped it against the abnorm’s chest. “So tough.” He tapped it again.

“I mean it. Get out of my house.”

“Or what?” Another swing of the book.

Jack said, “Lou—”

Ranjeet slapped the book out of his hand. “I said, get out of my house.” He stepped forward, put his hands against Lou’s chest, and shoved.

Surprised, Lou staggered back. His foot came down on a toy truck and his leg flew up in front of him and his body canted, arms pinwheeling, and then he was falling. Ethan watched, his body frozen as his mind drew a line between Lou and the floor that went straight through the glass coffee table, and he thought that he should try to stop the fall, but thinking it was as far as he got.

The man hit the table backward, his weight smashing through, fragments of glass exploding outward as his body crashed through the top and then the shelf before hitting the shag carpet with a thud.

Ranjeet stepped forward, said, “Oh shit, I’m sorry—”

Lou gasped. He coughed, then rolled to one side. Glass crunching underneath him as he reached into the back of his waistband—

And came out with a gun.

The pistol was big, chrome, and the hand that held it was speckled with blood swelling from a dozen cuts. The barrel trembled, but it was aimed at Ranjeet’s chest. The world had become a strange and terrible tableau that Ethan could see complete: Kurt with his mouth hanging open, Jack with hands on the sides of his head, Ranjeet frozen with one arm out, and Lou on the floor, curled up like he was doing crunches, the pistol in his right hand.

“You son of a bitch,” Lou said.

As often happened, Ethan found himself watching with the eyes of an academic, noting the classic battle for tribal dominance as it escalated from threat to violence. One of the things that was beautiful about evolution was that it was at once messy and neat—messy in that it depended upon the randomness of mutation, a million false starts and blind alleys unguided by an architect’s hand; neat because the rules were applied with inviolate certainty and brutal simplicity, genes and species tested against each other not on God’s chalkboard but on the bloody battlefield that was life, in situations just like this one—

All of a sudden he realized that Lou’s finger was tightening on the trigger. He was going to shoot a man over a disagreement and a flare of temper, shoot him dead in his own living room with his little girls upstairs.

Without giving himself time to think about it, Ethan stepped in front of Ranjeet.

Physically, he’d only moved three feet. But the shift in perspective was massive. Ethan found himself staring down the barrel of the gun. A view he’d seen in movie posters and the covers of mystery novels, but reality was very different.

Lou stared at him, his eyes narrow and nostrils flaring. “Get out of the way.”

He wanted to, he really did, but all he did was shake his head. Afraid that any move too sudden or forceful might shatter the situation, might cause this hothead to do something truly stupid.

“Daddy!”

The cry came from the hallway. A pretty child in polka-dot pants and a sweater with a dolphin on it stared at them, something breaking in her wide, scared eyes.

“Baby, go upstairs,” Ranjeet said. “Everything’s okay. We were just talking, and Mr. Lou tripped.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Everything is fine.”

Ethan stared at the dark perfect circle of the gun barrel, and beyond it, at the man’s face, angry and scared and in pain and ashamed all at once.

Lou lowered the gun. Jack and Kurt hurried over, bent to help him up. He moved gingerly and groaned. Shards of glass tinkled against the carpet.

Ethan opened his mouth to apologize, to say the whole thing was a mess, an accident, but his friend spoke first.

“Get out of my house.” Ranjeet cut his eyes from one of them to the other, landed on Ethan. If he was grateful, it didn’t show in his eyes. “All of you. And don’t come back. Ever.”