The lightbulbs are still here, but they’re dark. On many of them, pigeons are perching, roosting between the blacked-out bulbs. New York and its sister cities have mandatory controls on electricity, just like Portland did—and although there are a greater number of cars and buses, the blackouts are stricter and more frequent. There are just too many people, and not enough juice for all of them.
The dais is wired with microphones and equipped with chairs; behind it is an enormous video screen, like the kind the DFA uses at its meetings. Uniformed men are making last-minute adjustments to the setup. That’s where Julian will be; somehow, I’ll have to get closer.
I start to push my way slowly, painstakingly, through the crowd. I have to fight and elbow and say “Excuse me” every time I try to squeeze by someone. Even being five foot two isn’t helping. There simply isn’t enough space between bodies—there are no cracks to slip through.
That’s when I start to panic again. If the Scavengers do come—or if anything goes wrong—there will be no place to run. We’ll be caught here like animals in a pen. People will trample one another trying to get out. A stampede.
But the Scavengers won’t come. They wouldn’t dare. It’s too dangerous. There are too many police, too many regulators, too many guns.
I squeeze my way past a series of bleachers, all roped off, where members of the DFA Youth Guard are sitting: girls and boys on separate bleachers, of course, all of them careful not to look at one another.
At last I make it to the foot of the dais. The platform must be ten or twelve feet in the air. A series of steep wooden steps gives the speakers access from the ground. At the foot of the stairs, a group of people has gathered. I make out Thomas and Julian Fineman behind a blur of bodyguards and police officers.
Julian and his father are dressed identically. Julian’s hair is slicked back, and curls just behind his ears. He’s shifting from foot to foot, obviously trying to conceal his nervousness.
I wonder what’s so important about him—why Tack and Raven told me to keep an eye on him. He has become symbolic of the DFA, of course—sacrifice in the name of public safety—but I wonder whether he presents some kind of additional danger.
I think back to what he said at the rally: I was nine when I was told I was dying.
I wonder what it feels like to die slowly.
I wonder what it feels like to die quickly.
I squeeze my nails into my palms, to keep the memories back.
The drumming is coming from behind the dais, a part of the square that’s blocked from view. There must be a marching band there. The chanting swells, and now everyone is joining in, the whole crowd unconsciously swaying along to the rhythm. Distantly, I make out some other rhythm, a disjointed staccato: DFA is dangerous for all… The cure should protect, not harm…
The dissenters. They must be sequestered somewhere else, far away from the dais.
Louder, louder, louder. The DFA’s chants soon drown out all other sound. I join in, let my body find the rhythm, feel the hum of all those thousands of people buzz up through my feet and into my chest. And even though I don’t believe in any of it—the words, the cause, the people around me—it amazes me, still, the surge I get from being in a crowd, the electricity, the sense of power.
Dangerous.
Just as the chanting reaches a crescendo, Thomas Fineman breaks away from the bodyguards and takes the steps up to the top of the dais, two at a time. The rhythm breaks apart into waves of shouting and clapping. White banners and flags appear from everywhere, unfurling, fluttering in the wind. Some of them are DFA-issue. Other people have simply cut up long strips of cloth. Times Square is full of slender white tentacles.
“Thank you,” Thomas Fineman says into the microphone. His voice booms out over all of us; then a sharp screeching sound as the feed lets out a whine. Fineman winces, cups his hand over the microphone, and leans back to mutter instructions to someone. The angle of his neck shows off his procedural mark perfectly. The three-pronged scar is amplified by the video screen.
I turn my eyes to Julian. He is standing with his arms crossed, watching his father, behind the wall of bodyguards. He must be cold; he’s only wearing a suit jacket.
“Thank you,” Thomas Fineman tries again, and, when no feed kicks back, adds, “Much better. My friends—”
That’s when it happens.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three miniature explosions, like the firecrackers we used to set off at Eastern Prom on the Fourth of July.
One scream, high and desperate.
And then: Everything is noise.
Figures in black appear from nowhere, from everywhere. They’re climbing up out of the sewers, materializing from the ground, taking shape behind the foul-smelling steam. They swarm down the sides of the buildings like spiders, rappelling on long black ropes. They’re scything through the crowd with glittering, sharp blades, grabbing purses and ripping necklaces from around people’s necks, slicing rings from their fingers. Thwack. Thwack.
Scavengers. My insides turn to liquid. My breath stops in my throat.
People are pushing and shoving, desperately trying to find a way out. The Scavengers have us surrounded.