Fragments. Dan Wells

pulled out her binoculars, starting with the southern view and scanning the skyline for radio antennas. There were far more than she expected. She blew out a long, slow breath, shaking her head and wondering how she’d ever be able to find the one building she needed out of the thousands that filled the island. She closed her eyes.

      “The only way to do it,” she said softly, “is to do it.” She plucked her notebook from the back of her bag, found the closest antenna to the south, and starting taking notes.

      

he farthest antenna Kira found was so far north she suspected it might be beyond the borders of Manhattan island, in the region called the Bronx; she hoped she didn’t have to go that far, as the proximity to the Partials still made her nervous, but if she had to do it, she swore that she would. The answers she stood to gain made any risk worth it.

      The closest antenna was the giant spire on top of her own building, but there was no one in the building with her. Well— she didn’t think there was anyone else in the building with her who could be using it, but it was an awfully big building. “Maybe I’m being paranoid,” she told herself, climbing up to check the antenna. She stopped and corrected herself. “Maybe I’m being too paranoid. A little bit is probably pretty healthy.” The antenna turned out to be completely unpowered, and she was surprised at how relieved she felt. She studied the city, taking notes on each new antenna she found, and watched as the setting sun revealed new solar panels one by one, winking slyly as the fading light hit just the right angle, then sliding again into darkness. At night she slipped down a few floors to find an enclosed room, and bundled herself warmly in her sleeping bag. This high in the sky the buildings were remarkably clean—no windswept dirt, no budding shoots, no paw prints in the dust. It reminded her of home, of the buildings she and others had worked so hard to keep clean: her house, the hospital, the school. She wondered, not for the first time, if she would ever see any of them again.

      On the fourth day her water ran dry, and she made the long climb down to street level looking for more. A park at the end of a long city block drew her attention, and she found what she was looking for—not a pool or puddle but a subway entrance, dark water lapping at the steps. In the old world the subway had been for transportation, but somehow it had flooded; the tunnels were now an underground river, slow but still flowing. Kira brought out her purifier and pumped three more liters, refilling her plastic bottles, always keeping a wary eye on the city around her. She found a grocery store and stocked up on several cans of vegetables, but stopped and grimaced when she found one that had swollen and burst—these cans were now more than eleven years old, and that was getting close to the shelf life of most canned foods. If some of these were already spoiling, she was better off not risking any of them. She sighed and put them back, wondering if she had the time to hunt live game.

      “At least some snares,” she decided, and set a few simple rope traps near the top of the subway entrance. There were prints around the mouth of it, and she figured some of the local elands and rabbits were using it as a watering hole. She climbed back up to her observatory, set a few more snares for birds, and got back to work. Two nights later she had goose for dinner, roasted over a smokeless survival stove and turned on a spit made of old wire hangers. It was the best she’d eaten in weeks.

      Five days and three water trips later she found her first big break—a gleam of light in a window, a tiny speck dancing redly for just a second, and then it was gone. Was it a signal? Had she only imagined it? She sat up straighter, watching the spot intently through her binoculars. A minute went by. Five minutes. Just as she was about to give up, she saw it again: a movement, a fire, and a closing door. Someone was letting out smoke; maybe their cook fire had gotten out of hand. She scrambled to identify the building before night fell too completely, and saw the dancing flame three more times in the next half hour. When the moon rose she looked for smoke, but there was nothing; they had dispersed it, or the wind had, too effectively to be seen.

      Kira stood up, still staring toward the building now invisible in the darkness. It was one of the many she’d identified as a likely target—its roof was covered with solar panels, ringing a central antenna so large she thought it must have been an actual radio station. If someone had gotten that old equipment running again, they’d have a more powerful radio than either of the two she’d seen blown up.

      “Do I go now, or wait for morning?” Staring into the darkness, she realized she still wasn’t sure what her plan was—knowing where the bad guys were hiding wouldn’t do her any good if she triggered a bomb as soon as she stepped inside. She could try to catch one of them, maybe in a larger version of her rabbit snares, and ask questions, or she could try to slip in when the bomb wasn’t armed—which, she supposed, was only when the mysterious bombers themselves were inside. That didn’t sound safe at all.

      “The best thing to do,” she whispered, crouching lower in the window, “is exactly what I’m doing now—watch and wait and hope I can learn something useful.” She sighed. “It’s gotten me this far.”

      But the question remained: Should she go tonight or wait for morning? A journey through the city would be more dangerous in the dark, but her targets had proven to be incredibly cautious—if they knew a flash of light and a trail of smoke had given away their position, they might move to a new location, leaving another booby trap in their wake, and Kira would lose them. Had the fire been an accident? Would it make them nervous enough to run? Kira had no way of knowing, and the uncertainty made her nervous in turn. This was one situation where the slow, cautious approach was too risky—she’d already lost five days; better to go now, she decided, than to take the chance of losing her only good lead. She packed her things, checked her rifle, and began the long descent through the pitch-dark bowels of the stairwell.

      Feral cats prowled the lower levels, searching for food with bright, nocturnal eyes. Kira heard them moving in the shadows, waiting and watching and pouncing; the hiss of predators and the struggling of prey.

      Kira scanned the street carefully before leaving the building, then moved softly from car to car, keeping to cover as much as possible. The building with the campfire was about three miles north, uncomfortably close to the giant forest of Central Park. Wild animals lived throughout the city, but the park was home to most of the big ones. Kira traveled as quickly as she dared, keeping her flashlight off and using the moon to see. The pale light made shadows deeper and more ominous; it also made the ground look smoother than it really was, and Kira stumbled on the rough terrain anytime she tried to move too fast. She skirted the west side of the park, watching for animals, but there were none out in the open. This was bad news: If there were deer out, it would at least give the predators something better to hunt than her. Feral house cats were hardly the most dangerous predators in the city.

      A shadow shifted in her peripheral vision, and Kira whirled around to look. Nothing. She paused to listen . . . yes . . . there it was. A deep thrum, almost too low to hear. Something very big was breathing nearby, not just breathing but purring, almost growling. Something very good at hiding.

      Kira was being hunted.

      Before her was a large plaza, the concrete cracked and buckled and dotted with tufts of tall, dark weeds; the center statue stood solemn and unmoving. Cars circled the edge, their tires long ago turned flat and deflated. Kira backed slowly against a wall, cutting off the predator’s lines of attack, holding her breath to listen. The deep breathing was there, a bass rumble of giant lungs filling and exhaling. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

      There are panthers in the city, she thought. I’ve seen them during the day—panthers and lions and once, I swear, I saw a tiger. Refugees from a zoo or a circus, well fed by the herds of wild deer and horses that roam Central Park. There are even elephants—I heard them last year. Do they feed on those, too?

      Focus, she told herself. They’re going to feed on you if you don’t find a way out of this. Lions or panthers or worse.

      Panthers.