The anonymous Artemisian led the Baron and Zombie a couple of blocks northeast, to a small florist’s shop renting the bottom of a last-century apartment building. She knocked against a door-mounted window, rattling a painted sign that read CLOSED while summoning the proprietor—an old man dressed in a white coat like a grocery clerk from 1929.
After opening the door a crack, he looked them over, nodded silently to the Artemisian, and allowed the Baron and Zombie inside. Their guide departed, and together with the florist, they walked through a darkened showroom, damp and earthy.
“I closed ‘cause of the fighting,” the florist said, gesturing at the mute parade of petals all around them. “But an Anastasia dock boss paid me to open the back.”
“A woman?” the Baron asked.
“Yeah, actually. She said you might be coming here. Bald man. Tall Chinaman.”
“Saves us looking for her,” the Baron replied.
The florist glanced back. “Are your shoes dirty? Your feet?”
The Zombie glanced down at the smears of blood across his bare toes, fully blackened after drying. “Most of it got wiped off in the grass. On the pavement.”
The florist grunted. “I’ll clean later.” He unlocked a door to the back, allowing them into an overburdened workshop. There, a series of half-built bouquets, reams of wrapping paper, and several piles of wicker baskets fought for space with a scratched wood block worktable, covered with sharp tools and an old radio set.
It was a cramped room, leaving little space for conversation amidst the clutter. Nevertheless, this was their meeting space. As hoped, Phyllis was already seated on a creaking stool at the end of the table, smiling at their arrival. The florist checked with her, verified that he’d collected the right legends, and left, shutting the door behind him.
Then they were alone, and the Baron released a sigh of genuine relief. “It’s been a hell of a day,” he said.
“Yeah?” Phyllis asked. “All the bombs going off, shaking the windows.”
The Zombie stood by the table, snickering like he knew a secret.
She cast a frown towards him. “What?”
“That was a magic guandao,” he said. “No bombs.”
Phyllis blinked twice. “What’s a guandao?”
“A polearm,” the Baron answered. “You know, a blade on a stick?”
“What kind?” she asked.
It was the Baron’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean, what kind?”
“On a stick. Knife? Axe? Sword?”
“Oh! Sword on a stick,” the Baron answered, “but this one fired exploding rainbows.”
“Very loud!” the Zombie added with genuine glee.
“No shit,” Phyllis muttered. “People could hear the blasts on some of my calls. So you two spent lunch dodging rainbows then?”
“They were mostly helpful,” the Zombie noted.
Phyllis smirked. “Well, tell me what happened in a moment. First, let’s get you washed up and changed. I swiped some of your clothes and shoes from the Biltmore.”
They used the florist’s washroom to clean off obvious smears of dirt and blood. Once they dressed up in fresh suits and shoes, they returned to the workshop to chat.
Phyllis was fussing with the radio set, an old war-time model. “Piece of shit,” she cussed at it, gently twisting its volume knob. For a brief moment, music was painfully loud; then she rolled it back a fraction, and it was inaudibly quiet. The slightest touch pushed the speakers to bursting or silenced them.
“Having trouble?” the Zombie asked.
“It’s a bad volume knob,” Phyllis said. “I want it on for the news.”
“Can I try?” he asked curiously.
She stepped back, glowering at the dusty thing. “Please. I hope you’re invincible against irritation.”
The Zombie laughed. “I’m not, but I won’t murder the radio.”
The Baron pulled out a wooden chair, tucking himself down against the table. “So, how did it go this morning?” he asked Phyllis, scooting forward and settling in.
The Artemisian sat down on her stool, perching her work boots on one of its crossbars. “Marco was shaken up. When he saw his mom, he just started crying. I don’t think he’d really thought about a future without his dad. Not until then.”
“That bad?”
“Depends on your perspective. He’s alive and safely out of harm’s way.”
“True enough.”
“You shouldn’t worry about him. This’ll be a bad memory someday, but we made him a cultist. There could be a lot of good in that too.”
“Yes,” the Baron said. “It’s just harsh. I left him with a ruined kidney.”
“He’ll live without it,” the Zombie muttered, staring at the old radio.
“He’s alive,” Phyllis insisted. “If you hadn’t helped, he’d be dead.”
The Baron raised his hands in surrender. “Fair enough. What else happened?”
“After I got back, I brewed some coffee, followed your instructions, and poked the Soviets until about nine. I put in calls to the UN, to the Soviet Mission. I mentioned the Cat o’ Nine Lives on an answering machine and said they’d find it in Tammany.”
The Zombie held the volume knob between rock steady fingers, twisting it so slowly that the motion was almost invisible to the eye.
“That was after the National Guard deployed to stop CPUSA?” the Baron asked, double-checking his own understanding of things.
“Afterwards, yeah. By the time I sicced the Commies on Tammany, Heckhaus had already deployed soldiers in a dragnet to pick you up. I think he’d figured you’d lost to New York this morning.”
“That sounds correct. It’s complicated, but he sent us a message a few minutes ago, asking for our surrender—”
“Wait.” The Zombie raised a hand for silence, and the conversation paused. Music slowly rose to a comfortable volume, and he gingerly released the volume knob. Blue Tango was playing on the old speakers. “I don’t like radios, but an orchestra ain’t bad.”
“You don’t like them because they’re not loud,” the Baron noted.
“Not without breaking them.” The Zombie stepped away from the radio, as if being too close to it might ruin the precarious positioning of the volume knob.
Phyllis leaned forward on her stool. “Look, calling everyone wasn’t much of a plan, but it worked, right? When the Commies hit Tammany, you two were able to get out.”
“It worked,” the Baron agreed, “but it ended up being far more dangerous than I’d hoped. CPUSA brought dozens of bodies. Tammany only let us go because Schuler insisted, and he made me swallow the Cat o’ Nines Lives.”
Phyllis’s eyes opened wide. “You’ve swallowed it?” She glanced up and away, then back to him. “I put my hand in Marco. It was… terrible. Removing it, I mean.”
“I know. I don’t want field surgery, but Schuler was right.” d’Holbach turned his head to the side and tapped his fingers below the fresh scar on his neck. “Look. Winged by a fifty cal. The Guard ambushed us. I died within seconds.”
“Gods,” Phyllis muttered, leaning forward to look closely at the scar. “How did it feel?”
“Awful. Like life, bursting out of my neck. Death really hurts.”
“It’s just as I said,” the Zombie declared, standing across the workshop table from the Baron. “Death hurts more than anything.”
The Baron cast a wan smile towards Phyllis. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. You did what we asked, and it worked out. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but we’re not done yet.” She sat upright on her stool. “I’ve been making a lot of calls. People are working the streets for me now. You met one of them already.”
“The lady who caught up with us earlier?” the Zombie asked.
“Yeah. She’s an Artemisian from the Bronx,” Phyllis said. “I had ten women running my perimeter around Tammany. I didn’t know which way you’d go, but I figured any of them would have an easy time identifying you on sight.”
“Hey, I almost looked street-legal this time,” the Zombie said. “I still had a shirt. I was only missing buttons and a pair of shoes.”
“You strut around like a psychotic,” Phyllis said wryly, “and your feet were covered in blood. Did you kick someone to death?”
The Zombie grinned broadly, like a proud sportsman showing off his trophies. “I jumped on a man’s neck, and his head popped off like a cork.”
Phyllis pretended to gag. “Gods.”
The Zombie cackled. “They made it all possible!”
Phyllis waved away the notion. “After sighting you, she brought you here. Bim, bam, you’ve escaped Tammany Hall.”
“They genuinely let us go,” the Baron noted. “Schuler led us out, then stayed behind to defend Tammany.”
“Why though? They had you—didn’t they?”
“We were too much trouble,” the Zombie suggested.
“No way!” Phyllis slapped her hands on her cheeks and feigned surprise. “You were trouble? Perish the thought.”
The Baron reached out to a pair of trimming shears and nudged a rubber handle with a finger, making them spin around on the hinge bolt. “He’s only half-kidding. To be clear, the gods paid for my escape, and the payout was on an obscene scale.”
“Oh… Well, shit. How big?” Phyllis asked.
“Seven centuries for escorting me away from the Hall, if Schuler was to be believed. That’s several times the payout on the boat task that Nagy sniped last week.”
“Damn. How many people died for your escort?”
The Baron shrugged uncomfortably. “Dozens, probably.”
“It might be the right price then. A lifetime of prestige for each lost man. Sum it all up, and pay it out like life insurance.”
“Maybe.” The Baron scratched the edge of the scar on his neck.
“Well, this time we’ll be better prepared,” Phyllis continued. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Crossing over into Queens is essentially impossible at the moment. The ferries are running slowly, the Coast Guard is herding up private boats, most air traffic is grounded, and they’re checking IDs for all passengers at train and subway stations.”
“What about buses?” the Baron asked.
“They’re subject to the same National Guard checkpoints, and they’re running reduced service. If it was affordable, Langley would stop the whole city like a bad watch.”
“Are they concentrating on Manhattan?”
“The Bronx also. They’re looking to isolate you on the move to LaGuardia; grab you while you’re heading into Queens. With all the noise on the radio about Denisov’s flight out of the country, your destination should be clear to anyone with half a brain.” She rapped the table with her knuckles. “The secret is out. The battle lines are drawn, and Langley will win a conventional war.”
“So are there any alternate paths?”
“Sort of,” Phyllis said.
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“My original thought was to access one of the underground rivers or canals. The city already has motorboats in the water, and maintenance workers will smuggle anybody up or down the waterways for a price. Take that safehouse under Broadway. Another fifty feet down that tunnel, and there was a dock for the canal.”
“What’s the catch?” the Baron asked.
“Time, direction, and safety. I asked around, and someone was already investigating the waterways on Sunday. I think the CIA updated a list of available services.”
“So Heckhaus would know where we were going, if we used an underground river?”
“I think they’ve covered everything in Manhattan and the Bronx, and the creeks under Queens are short and flow away from your destination.”
“I’ve snuck through cities before,” the Baron said, “unpredictability is key. I don’t think going underground again is the right plan unless we’re on foot and forced down.”
“Right, so I’ve been asking around for the last hour or so. My Cosa Nostra contacts have a lot of access to union workers who’ll run a side job, discreetly.”
“Are you sure we can’t just smuggle me into the borough?” the Baron asked.
“Smuggle?” Phyllis was genuinely confused.
“Put me in a car trunk and drive me to LaGuardia. Without Schuler’s help, how’s anybody supposed to find us?”
Phyllis frowned. “I don’t think I’ve been clear about the level of security, Baron. These aren’t checkpoints where they glance at your driver’s license and wave you on through. It’s a military occupation of Manhattan Island, with a smaller detachment on the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge to block you from sneaking into Queens through the back door. I’m talking tanks, Baron, Stuarts and M24s. If you don’t have urgent business, you don’t go, because they’re going to paw through everything and arrest you if they don’t like what they find.”
The Zombie was briefly admiring his last pair of good shoes. He glanced up. “So they’re ready to fight a war then. What do they expect?”
“I’d bet it’s just a precaution,” the Baron said. “What if New York helped us? Or what if we escaped and they tried to take us back? Many of New York’s cultists are still in the field, and there’s no strong chain of command. This morning, loads of them were walking out of Greenwich with paper orders and firearms. Incidents are bound to happen all afternoon.”
“They are happening,” Phyllis said. “I think the bulk of the National Guard in Manhattan are rolling around the streets, trying to provoke and pick up armed cultists. New York or CPUSA, they don’t care. Everyone they arrest is accused of Communism and thrown in a paddy wagon.”
“So what’s your plan then?” the Baron asked.
“Well, until Anastasia bothers to assign a new man to the district, Red Hook is mine, and I’ll probably end up the underboss regardless. People want me to owe them a favor, so I’ve called up a lot of new contacts. I’ve got some pull and people now.”
The Zombie rubbed his fingers together, the universal sign for cash. “I’ve got a connection,” he said, vaguely imitating a bad New York accent.
“There’s a crew running a monthly visual inspection under the lower deck of the Queensboro Bridge, and another one trying to paint trusses. They’ve been using temporary catwalks that connect up to the old roof-access trolley stations.” Phyllis leaned forward over the table. “My contacts have union workers in both crews. We can pose you as city inspectors, slap on a couple of hard hats and walk you under the bridge.”
“Do we pass any checkpoints getting to these maintenance walks?” the Baron asked.
“No. We can literally climb up to them through the old trolley stations. Nobody is watching them either because they’re technically not accessible. Fortunately, all it takes is a ladder and some bolt cutters and we’re off.”
“What about the climb down in Queens?”
“Already taken care of. There’ll be someone waiting at the far end. The main problem is the middle of the bridge. There are places on the anchor piers where they might have checkpoints running, but you’re not going to find a better path. We’ll have to risk it.”
“That gets us to Queens,” the Baron said, “but what about LaGuardia?”
Phyllis folded her hands. “What about it?”
“I dread going there. My current plan is simple at best.”
“Few chess pieces, few strategies,” the Zombie said.
“What is your plan exactly?” Phyllis asked.
“I figure the Zombie can punch a hole through security while I sneak in from another direction. Then we meet up on the airfield, intercept our targets on the runway, and hand Denisov the Cat in plain sight, where nobody can afford a shootout.”
Phyllis furrowed her brow, crossing her arms. “That’s it?”
“I know, but I can’t formulate anything better. Not without more resources.”
“Well, I might have the resources for a better idea, but…” Phyllis glanced at her watch, then lifted a finger. “Wait a second.”
“What is it?” the Baron asked.
“It’s the half-hour. Should be the news.”
“On the half-hour?” Stations had to identify themselves hourly, and usually ran the news at the same time.
“It’s been happening all day. Shh.”
The music cleared, and an NBC chime played behind a golden-throated broadcaster. “66WNBC, the only station you’ll ever need. We interrupt the second hour of our musical variety broadcast to bring you an update on the emergency in New York City. Earlier this morning, Soviet diplomats disavowed any hand in the ongoing communist violence, and the governor’s office sent out a report, blaming remnants of the US Communist Party for yesterday’s shootings. According to Pentagon sources, new facts appear to bear out these claims.
“While WNBC reporters cannot access or report on classified information, we see no reason to question the Pentagon’s conclusions. They were first to call for an escalated state of readiness. Now they’re the first to call for a de-escalation in international tensions.
“Nevertheless, the threat of violence remains in our streets. National Guard crews are actively sweeping Lower Manhattan for signs of communist sympathizers, saboteurs, and anarchists. If you have any knowledge of these traitors or have spotted anyone suspicious, please contact your local authorities with any information. Your call may save lives.
“The governor’s office has declined to comment about the ongoing operations in the city, citing security and public safety concerns. Impressions from WNBC reporters and wire reports from the Associated Press paint a picture of escalating preparations, with more soldiers moving out of LaGuardia and deploying across our neighborhoods and in our streets.
“While some may protest the inconvenience of safety, WNBC’s management wishes to remind our listening audience that good, honest Americans are already fighting in our streets. We ask you to cooperate with the government during this dire emergency. Together, we will stand firm against subterfuge, and God willing, we will prevail. We come to you as the voice of a nation, and we assure you, as long as free men can speak, you will hear us on 66WNBC.
“Godspeed to all members of the National Guard of New York, and good luck. We salute your service, and we pray our listeners do as well. This was WNBC, New York. Now back to the music. We have Billy Ward and the Dominoes, singing ‘Do Something For Me.’”
The Zombie stepped over and turned down the music with a light tap of the volume knob. “So it’s officially not an exercise?” he asked.
Phyllis sighed. “Yeah. Just about an hour after dawn, the governor announced that they’d uncovered evidence that Sunday’s firefights were the efforts of a Communist fifth column, operating without the knowledge or consent of the Soviets. What started as an exercise became a full deployment. Now the Pentagon seems to buy the story.”
The Zombie smirked. “They don’t want to start a nuclear war. Not yet, anyways.”
The Baron pushed aside the larger worries, concentrating on the small realities in front of them. “You said you might have a better plan?”
Phyllis scratched her nose with the back of a knuckle. “Yes, but it’ll need some explanation first. When did you want to reach LaGuardia?”
“I don’t know. At least by three, so we can watch for the Soviets. We might catch Denisov outside of the airport. If not, we can follow him in and find another moment.”
She traced an arc on the tabletop with her finger. “So, there’s some odd details about this setup. Normally international flights go out of Newark or Idlewild, and sometimes private international flights are permitted to take off in Speed’s Airport, but LaGuardia is almost exclusively East Coast service. It’s an unusual place for the Soviets to fly from.”
This was all new information to the Baron. “I haven’t had much reason to fly through New York recently. What’s the trick here, you think?”
“Basically, the National Guard are deploying out of there. They’ve been landing C130s since Sunday morning, unloading military vehicles. That’s how they got all this armor and equipment on the streets in short order. The Soviets probably wanted to fly from Idlewild, but I’d wager Heckhaus pulled strings to force them through LaGuardia, right in the heart of the secular army. He wants the Soviet cult under the sword.”
“What’d be his reasoning?”
“Honestly? I think he’s expecting a fight.”
The Zombie spoke up: “He’s at least preparing for me.”
“Yeah,” Phyllis said. “The point is—this won’t be an easy infiltration. Nobody will just walk in. It’s an active war camp.”
The Baron had done his fair share of trespassing, and he presumed Phyllis had done the same. In most cases, you didn’t need a plan or a secret entrance. You dressed for the part, behaved like you belonged, and walked in. That’s all it normally took, even in secret military installations, because time and boredom took the teeth out of any security regime. But if people were expecting a fight, high energy and tight nerves kept them sharp. If LaGuardia was readied for an open battle, the entire airport would be buttoned up tight.
“I follow you,” he said, “what options are we left with?”
“That’s where my plan comes in. It’s tentative, but once we’re away from the bridge, I want to get you up in a garbage truck. That’ll get you through Queens. It’s a little slow, but eventually you’ll reach Jackson Heights. You can hop out before the trucker heads to Fresh Kills, then go north into East Elmhurst on foot. There’s a two-acre park overlooking the airfields there.”
“Two acres?”
“Yeah. It’s just a crescent of lawn, not even named, but I can hire some landscapers to show up and trim the place. You could hide in their van for the duration of the job, and they’d finish up whenever you were ready to leave. As for getting into LaGuardia, I don’t have a strong suggestion. The normal crews are on paid leave during the emergency. For today, the airport is a military installation. I can get you there, but you’ll have to figure out how to assault it.”
The Baron took a deep breath. “We’ll figure that out once we get there.”
Author’s Note:
A/N goes here.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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