“India didn’t make it,” said Lyle. “There might be more on the ladder, but I guess we left them behind.”
“All the other delegates got hit by the monkey lotion,” said Cynthia. “There was no point waiting.” She gave Samoa a pointed glance. “Nobody else was worth saving.”
“None of you were hit?” asked the general.
Lyle shook his head. “I don’t think so.” They checked each other quickly, and found nothing.
“There are tunnels into the city,” said Blauwitz. “We’ll have to go up to the surface streets eventually, but we can at least bypass this particular mob.”
“And run straight into another one,” said Cynthia. “We need to go out the back and into the river—we can find a boat and get out of here.”
“‘Out back’ is FDR Drive,” said Russia. “There are boats across the river, but nothing on this side for blocks in either direction.”
“I don’t think we could swim the river in this weather,” said Samoa.
“Definitely not with that dead weight on your shoulder,” Cynthia snapped.
“Boats are a good idea,” said China, “but not in the East River. The closest dock is the UN school, fourteen blocks at least, and if there’s nothing there we’ll have to go all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“If we’re going that far we’d be better off crossing the island,” said Mexico. “The Hudson’s got boats all over the place.”
“The Chelsea Piers,” said Lyle quickly. “Cynthia’s got a boat there.” He was pleased with himself for remembering it, but the predatory triumph on her face made him feel like she’d somehow manipulated him into announcing her own plan for her.
“It’s called Mummer’s Hoard,” she said proudly. “Big enough for all of us; gassed up and ready to go.”
“The tunnels, then,” said Blauwitz, and they followed him through a maze of hallways. The UN complex was far bigger than Lyle had guessed—far bigger, he suspected, than the delegates had guessed, as well. Every now and then they heard distant shouts or screams or gunshots, but the farther they walked the more the sounds faded away, and after a series of locked metal doors they disappeared completely. At last Blauwitz led them up a long staircase and through another locked door. The building they’d entered let them out onto Forty-Second Street, almost to Second Avenue. Lyle looked back toward the river to see that the UN building had caught on fire.
“Keep a low profile,” said the general. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”
“Then we should drop the half-dead body,” said Cynthia.
“Maybe people will think it’s an all-dead body and get scared away,” said Lilly. Her voice was shaky, Lyle noticed, but her eyes were grim and determined.
They walked quickly, trying to look purposeful rather than scared. It was nearly seven now—not late, but it was December and the sky was already pitch black. With power out in so much of the city the buildings had become tall, dark monoliths that blocked out the stars. Lyle felt like a rat in the bottom of a deep black maze, scurrying through the narrow tunnels and hoping none of the bigger rats tried to eat him.
Blauwitz led them over a block to Third, to put some distance between them and the mob, and then cut south down the long avenue. A hospital on Thirty-Second was still running on on-site power, and looked to have crowd outside, so they turned on Thirty-Third to avoid it. Here and there they passed other shapes in the darkness, running and hiding as furtively as they were. They traveled south again on Fourth, and the general quickened their pace.
“The Armory’s just down here,” he said, peering ahead. “We might be able to get some help there; a vehicle if we’re lucky, reinforcements at the very least.”
“There’s not enough room on the yacht for that many,” said Cynthia. “We have to get the delegates off, and we can’t risk a mutiny of desperate soldiers.”
“American soldiers don’t mutiny,” said the general, but as they neared the Armory they found it dark and abandoned, the doors chained and the windows barred. “I don’t understand,” he said, rattling the front door. “They should be here.”
“Let’s at least rest,” said Lilly. “We’ve come almost twenty blocks, and some of us don’t have shoes.”
“Then loot something,” said Cynthia. “I’m not dying for your feet.”
“Listen,” said Mexico, holding a finger in the air. They paused, holding their breath, and Lyle could hear it, too—another giant crowd, somewhere nearby, chanting something.
“Just a couple of blocks away,” said the general.
“Madison Square Park,” said China. He shrugged. “Maybe they’re in line at the Shake Shack.”
“Or murdering the Sixty-Ninth Regiment,” said the general. He started jogging west. “Let’s go.”
“Are you crazy?” asked Cynthia. “We’re not going toward it.”
“There might be someone in danger,” said the general.
“That’s exactly my point.”
“This mob’s not looking for us, so we can at least take a peek,” Blauwitz called back over his shoulder. “I’m not letting them hurt any more soldiers.”
They hurried to catch up, Lilly hanging back farther and farther as her bare feet grew more sore. They could see the lights now, giant bonfires in the park that cast massive, dancing shadows on the buildings around them. The chanting grew louder, though they couldn’t tell what the crowd was saying. A single voice with a megaphone was shouting something wild and incendiary in the middle of it all, but Lyle couldn’t understand him, either. “Can anyone hear what they’re saying?”
“It sounds like ‘the bomb,’” said Samoa.
“They’re saying ‘Kuvam,’” said Lilly. “It’s a cult meeting.”
The general paused, halfway to Madison Avenue, listening carefully. After a moment he turned and led them back to Fifth. “We’ll skirt the edges,” he said. “If it’s Kuvam’s people they’re probably not violent, but we don’t want to push it.” They went south again, two more streets to Twenty-Fifth, and saw for the first time the sheer size of the crowd. Lyle gasped. Ahead of them was Madison Square, at one of those massive New York intersections between two normal streets and the sharp diagonal of Broadway, and the cultists had converted the entire thing to an open-air temple. Bonfires covered the ground, lanterns and banners waved from the nearby buildings, and in the midst of it all were Lyles—hundreds of Lyles, thousands of Lyles, standing and bowing and perching on fences and clinging to windowsills and chanting, all of them chanting, the same words over and over: “Kuvam,” and “ReBirth,” and “All is light.” The buildings glowed orange in the flames, and Kuvam himself—reborn like the Phoenix—stood on a bus and preached the gospel of eternal life.
“We’re going around,” said Cynthia stiffly.
“There’s no soldiers in there,” said Blauwitz. “Not in the center or on the perimeter or anywhere. Not in uniform, anyway.”
“I never knew there were so many,” said Samoa. “I mean, I knew, but I … I had no idea.”
“We go around,” said Cynthia again. Her voice was equal parts steel and terror. “Four more streets, eight more streets, however many it takes to never see them again. Down and around and across to the river.” She moved away, and the others followed, but Lyle stayed rooted in place, staring at the chanting Lyles. It was … he didn’t know. He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see Lilly’s wide eyes staring into his.
