7
I FEEL HIM THEN, the one standing deep in the trees, motionless, watching me. I look, and then I see him, a lighter human-shaped shadow between the dark trunks. For a moment, neither of us moves. I know, without understanding how, that he is the one who shot the kid and the other members of his squad. And I know the shooter can’t be a recruit. His head does not glow in my eyepiece.
The snow spins, the cold squeezes. I blink, and the shadow is gone. If the shadow was ever there.
I’m losing my grip. Too many variables. Too much risk. Shaking uncontrollably, I wonder if they’ve finally broken me; after surviving the tsunami that took my home, the plague that took my family, the death camp that took my hope, the innocent little girl who took my bullet, I am terminal, done, finished, and was it ever in question, never if but always when?
The choppers bear down. I have to finish what I started with Teacup or I’ll join her where she lies.
I sight along the barrel of my pistol into the pale, angelic face at my feet, my victim, my cross.
And the roar of the Black Hawks’ approach makes my thoughts seem like the tiny squeaking whimpers of a dying rodent.
It’s like the rats, isn’t it, Cup? Just like the rats.
8
THE OLD HOTEL swarmed with vermin. The cold had killed off the cockroaches, but other pests survived, especially bedbugs and carpet beetles. And they were hungry. Within a day, all of us were covered with bites. The basement belonged to the flies, where corpses had been brought during the plague. By the time we checked in, most of the flies had died off. So many dead flies that their black husks crunched beneath our feet when we went down there the first day. That was also the last day we went into the basement.
The entire building reeked of rot, and I told Zombie that opening the windows would help dissipate the smell and kill off some of the bugs. He said he’d rather get bit and gag than freeze to death. As he smiled to drench you in his irresistible charm. Relax, Ringer. It’s just another day in the alien wild.
The bugs and the smell didn’t bother Teacup. It was the rats that drove her crazy. They had chewed their way into the walls, and at night their gnawing and scratching kept her (and therefore me) awake. She tossed and turned, whined and bitched and generally obsessed, because practically any other thoughts about our situation ended up in a bad place. In a vain attempt to distract her, I began teaching her chess, using a towel for a board and coins for the pieces.
“Chess is a stupid game for stupid people,” she informed me.
“No, it’s very democratic,” I said. “Smart people play, too.”
Teacup rolled her eyes. “You want to play just so you can beat me.”
“No, I want to because I miss playing it.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s what you miss?”
I spread the towel on the bed and positioned the coins. “Don’t decide how you feel about something before you try it.” I was around her age when I began. The beautiful wooden board on a stand in my father’s study. The gleaming ivory pieces. The stern king. The haughty queen. The noble knight. The pious bishop. And the game itself, the way each piece contributed its individual power to the whole. It was simple. It was complex. It was savage; it was elegant. It was a dance; it was a war. It was finite and eternal. It was life.
“Pennies are pawns,” I told her. “Nickels are rooks, dimes are knights and bishops, quarters are kings and queens.”
She shook her head. Ringer is an idiot. “How can dimes and quarters be both?”
“Heads: knights and kings. Tails: bishops and queens.”
The coolness of the ivory. The way the felt-covered bases slid over the polished wood, like whispered thunder crashing. My father’s face bent over the board, lean and unshaven, red-eyed and purse-lipped, encrusted with shadows. The sickly sweet smell of alcohol and fingers that thrummed like hummingbirds’ wings.
It’s called the game of kings, Marika. Would you like to learn how to play?
“It’s the game of kings,” I said to Teacup.
“Well, I’m not a king.” She crossed her arms. So over me. “I like checkers.”
“Then you’ll love chess. Chess is checkers on steroids.”
My father tapping his chipped nails on the tabletop. The rats scratching inside the walls.
“Here’s how the bishop moves, Teacup.”
This is how the knight moves, Marika.
She jammed a stale piece of gum into her mouth and chewed angrily as the dry shards crumbled. Minty breath. Whiskey breath. Scratch, scratch, tap, tap.