TEN BLOCKS AWAY, Julian Fletcher had been drinking—a lot. In the three days since leaving the warehouse, he’d been roaming from shelter to shelter and visiting the ad hoc bars that popped up in the part of the city that used to be called Tribeca. For a brief era in the last century, this neighborhood had been a thriving art district, its gritty apartments and lofts occupied by striving young filmmakers, musicians, and sculptors. But that was long before creative expression was banned except for government posters and videos.
These days, quality liquor was as hard to find as an original painting. But Fletcher was persistent. And when he found a reliable watering hole, he patronized it for as long as it survived. He was already on his third bourbon of the evening. If the liquor hadn’t been so watered down, he would have been thoroughly drunk. As it was, he was just grumpy. He lifted his glass and let the last drop of warm liquor drip onto his tongue.
At some point in the far distant past, this place must have been a drugstore. The white countertop still had partitions made for consultations with the pharmacist. Long rows of shelves that once held pills and lotions were now drying racks for a sparse collection of glassware. Fletcher waved to the young woman behind the counter, down at the far end.
“Leena,” he called out. He wiggled his empty glass.
Leena had green-streaked black hair, and dark eyes that peeked out through her sequined mask. Like everybody who served stolen liquor in the city, she was part barkeep, part lookout, part escape artist. At the first hint of a raid, she would simply whisk her small collection of bottles into a padded cooler bag and disappear into the alley. A few days later, she would reemerge to set up shop somewhere else. Anyplace with a counter and a few chairs would do.
“Same?” she asked, hoisting the bottle of amber liquid. Fletcher nodded.
As Leena started to pour, Fletcher saw her eyes flick up. Then he felt a firm hand clamp over his shoulder. Leena quickly dipped the bottle down below the bar.
“Julian Fletcher!” a booming voice said.
Fletcher turned to see a stout man in a dark suit.
“Creighton Poole,” said Fletcher, with a slight slur. “How did you find me?”
“Not easy,” said Poole. “This might as well be Budapest.”
Down here below Forty-Sixth Street, Poole’s business wardrobe stood out like a clown costume. Leena eyed him suspiciously.
“Is he government?” she asked Fletcher.
“Worse,” said Poole, leaning over the counter. “I’m a lawyer.”
Leena half smiled at his little joke. “Drink?” she asked, hoisting the bottle back into view. Poole waved it away.
“Let’s try something you haven’t cut,” he said.
Leena eyed Poole with new respect. She reached under the counter and pulled out a nicer bourbon. She tipped the neck toward him. Poole examined the wax seal around the cap. He tossed a few bills on the bar and grabbed the bottle. He motioned for two glasses. Leena handed them over. Poole headed for a small table in the corner. Fletcher got up slowly from his stool and followed him.
When they got to the table, Poole set down the glasses and twisted the bottle cap. Small flakes of red wax fell onto the table. Poole poured two fingers into each glass. Fletcher took a deep swig of his fresh drink. The burn of the full-strength booze made him wheeze.
“I wasn’t ready,” he said.
“For what?” asked Poole.
“For any of it,” said Fletcher. He took another quick gulp. “My whole life, I felt like I was working in a graveyard. And then all of a sudden I was shocking people back to life like some kind of mad scientist.”
“You are a mad scientist,” said Poole. “You are the definition of a mad scientist. So what? The process worked. Now it’s time we both got something out of it.”
“I should publish a research paper,” said Fletcher. “‘Modified Cryogenic Suspension and Revivification.’ I could be famous.”
“Sure you could,” said Poole. “And then people would go right out and steal your process. Where’s the genius in that? Where’s the payoff for Dr. Julian Fletcher?”
Poole leaned in, cradling his glass in both hands.
“Look,” he said, “our families have been keeping secrets for generations. We’ve both been waiting forever. Not doing. Waiting. It’s time we got something.”
“Meaning what?” said Fletcher.
“These people…these freaks,” said Poole, “have strange…Let’s call them ‘talents.’ Not just Cranston, but his lady friend. The girl, too.”
“Mind control,” said Fletcher. “I think they used it on me.”
Poole took a long sip of his drink. “Not just mind control. Invisibility! Maybe more. Maybe things nobody’s seen yet.”
“Invisibility?” said Fletcher, shaking his head. “No.”
“Look,” said Poole, “I don’t understand it either. Maybe it’s some kind of hypnosis or voodoo. Maybe they got into some weird chemicals when you weren’t looking. All I know is, people with those kinds of skills could pose a real threat to the powers that be.”
“Gismonde?” said Fletcher.
“That’s right,” said Poole. “And I’m betting that the world president’s people would pay a sweet bundle for what we know. You and me.”
Fletcher stared numbly over the rim of his glass. Even with the fuzz that coated his brain, he could see that Poole had a point. He’d spent the first half of his life waiting for something he never thought would happen. And now that his job was done, what was in it for him? There had to be something. Something better than this.
“Trust me,” said Poole. “We’ll make enough to get off this dirty island for good.” He drained his glass and slammed it down. “Before the whole damned thing sinks.”