The Secret Sea Page 12

  “What are you doing, man? We have to keep moving. That cop’ll—”

  He interrupted Khalid. “Look around you. There’s not a lot of people out here. But Broadway intersects Canal just a couple of blocks that way.” He hooked a thumb. “There’ll be lots of people there, and we can blend in.”

  “Then what?”

  A wounded, angry roar came from the park. “Then we figure out ‘then what’!” Zak exclaimed, and took off toward Broadway. To heck with his trouble breathing. No way he was going to be caught by the cops, not when he had more important things to do. Like rescuing his brother from beyond the walls of death.

  They ran down Canal, darting between pedestrians, dashing across streets against the lights, weaving between those odd, silent vehicles. Zak recognized the slope of Canal up ahead. They were almost at Broadway.

  Good thing, too. At a shout from Moira, he risked a look over his shoulder. Two cops were chasing them down; one of them had the bulk and heft of Officer Cheong, who probably had taken it personally when Khalid zapped him unconscious.

  Zak dug down deep and put on a burst of speed that made his heart complain. He ignored it and pushed ahead. Mercer Street disappeared off to his left, and then it was less than a block to Broadway. Once on Broadway, they could cut uptown and hide in the crowds and among the many alleys and side streets.

  Khalid and Moira had passed him and dashed ahead. All of a sudden, they stopped dead in their tracks. Zak nearly crashed between them and kept going, but he stopped at the last minute.

  “What are you doing? We have to keep—”

  And then he saw what they could see. They’d come to the end of Canal Street.

  Which, in this world, led to an actual canal.

  TWENTY-SIX

  A sign nearby read BROADWAY CANAL and had some information about “services”; Zak didn’t even bother skimming it.

  Right there, right before them, where there should have been a bustling, busy, too-crowded two-way boulevard that wended through the Lower East Side north to the Upper West Side, was instead a canal—a gentle, wide waterway cutting its way through the city. Gondoliers poled their way up and down the current.

  “Oh,” Khalid said, and then let loose with an impressive string of curse words, some in English, some in Farsi.

  Zak only knew English swear words. He wished he’d picked up some Spanish ones. It seemed like the right time for them.

  “Bloody hell,” Moira said in her mother’s voice.

  They stood on a cement platform that ran the length of the canal in both directions as far as they could see. A polished brass railing, lit at intervals with that same odd glowing substance they’d seen everywhere, kept them from jumping (or, more likely, falling) into the canal. Passersby milled about, some of them apparently amused by the three kids who’d just come barreling down Canal Street, others miffed and muttering imprecations. Out on the canal, the gondolas drifted by, all of them decked out with motors, but most of them poled along.

  “Now what?” Khalid asked.

  Zak checked—the cops were less than a block away. He looked up and down the canal quickly, noticing a break in the balustrade, where a wooden walkway led to a small pier.

  “Let’s grab a ride!” he said, and darted in that direction. Moira and Khalid followed, pushing their way through the crowd gathered along the canal. Soon they arrived at the pier. A gondola eased its way to the pier with the gentlest bump.

  A tall man with a powerful chest greeted them, doffing his beret. “What can I do for you chaps this fine evening?” he asked. “Whereabouts uptown?”

  Zak noticed a sign with a list of stops on it. Fortunately, they were all familiar: Fourth Street, Sixteenth Street, and so on. There was a schedule of prices that made no sense—the numbers were all preceded not by the familiar $ but rather by an uppercase S struck through with horizontal lines: .

  Yeah, figures the money would be different, too.

  “Fourth Street,” Zak said. “Fast.” He was too afraid to look over his shoulder.

  The gondolier smiled and stepped aside so that Zak could board, then froze when he got a clear look at Zak’s companions.

  “Sorry, chaps. I can’t help you.”

  “You have to!” Zak said.

  “Nope. Maybe someone else. Not me.” He wielded his pole to block Zak from boarding.

  Behind him, Zak heard fast, heavy footsteps on the pier. The cops. More than two of them now, from the sound of it.

  “Please,” Zak begged, but the gondolier only shook his head and repositioned his pole, ready to push off from the pier.

  Just then, Khalid shoved past Zak and leaped onto the gondola, knocking the gondolier off-balance. The bigger man stumbled as the gondola rocked with the unexpected motion. Khalid hit the deck, and Zak got the idea—he jumped, too, followed by Moira, the two of them hitting the gondola a few seconds apart, causing the boat to jitter back and forth. The already-unstable gondolier tipped forward and fell into the water.

  “Hold tight!” Khalid yelled. He was over by the motor and fiddled with it for a moment. Zak grabbed hold of the gondola seat; Moira clutched the nearest gunwale. The motor kicked in, lurching them forward. The expected roar of sound didn’t materialize; instead, the motor was as quiet as the softly burping cars back on Canal Street.

  They shot forward into the canal just as the cops massed on the pier. There were at least half a dozen of them now, including Officer Cheong in the lead. One of them dived into the canal, and Zak feared that the man would catch up to them, but instead of swimming after them, he stroked his way to the gondolier, who had surfaced and was treading water while screaming curses after his fleeing boat.

  “Watch out!” Zak shouted. Another gondola was crossing right in front of them, poled along too slowly to divert its course. The gondolier and his passengers—a man and a woman holding hands—stared in sheer terror at the boat bearing down on them.

  Khalid did something back by the motor, and their gondola banked hard to starboard, skipping around the slower one. “This is awesome!” Khalid chortled.

  “How did you know how to start the engine?” Zak yelled.

  “There’s only one button! I chanced it!”

  “Can you keep us going?”

  “One-double-oh!”

  Zak leaned toward the prow. The gondola was going much faster than he’d’ve thought possible; its wake rippled outward toward the retaining walls of the Broadway Canal and rebounded. Slower-moving gondolas rocked and threatened to capsize, caught in the overlapping swells. Far back, the police couldn’t make any headway, having to dodge a welter of gondolas and waves cramming the canal from bank to bank.

  Moira joined Zak up front, peering ahead. Ghostly lights effervesced from lampposts and the sides of buildings. “It’s a straight shot,” she said. “They’ll catch up eventually. There are no bends to hide behind.”

  Zak checked over his shoulder. The cops were still far behind but were making slow progress through the obstacle course the trio had inadvertently left behind. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “If we stay on the open water, we’re in trouble.”

  At the stern, Khalid whooped and hollered over the sound of the water being cut by their hull. Sure, it seemed like fun, but Zak knew that this thing couldn’t be outfitted to run so fast for too long. It was a gondola. It was for slow movement and short distances. The motor was probably for emergencies and would run out of gas—or whatever—at some point.

  “We need to get off this thing!” Zak cried out.

  Khalid boggled. “Are you kidding me? This is the most fun I’ve ever had!”

  Scrambling to the back of the gondola, Zak managed to crouch down near Khalid. The only sound was the rush of water and the occasional polite eructation from the motor. It was, relatively speaking, eerily quiet.

  “They’re going to close us off somewhere ahead,” Zak explained. “As long as we’re on the canal, we can only go in one direction. They probably have boats wai
ting up ahead already.”

  Khalid considered this. “I hate when you’re right.”

  “I know, and I apologize.”

  “So, what’s the plan, Stan?”

  Moira joined them; the gondola’s front end tipped up ever so slightly, and water rained down around them. “We have an audience,” she pointed out.

  Sure enough, on the raised walkways on either side of the canal, crowds had gathered, pointing and gaping. Zak didn’t blame them; it probably looked pretty bizarre from where they stood. Behind them, the police in the other gondolas had threaded the confusion and were speeding in their direction.

  “I have an idea,” Khalid said.

  “Now I’m worried,” Moira said.

  “Don’t worry.” And then Khalid steered them right at the retaining wall at top speed.

  * * *

  The purloined gondola struck the retaining wall straight on. Its prow, made of lightweight fiberglass and not designed for a full-speed collision, crumpled instantly, folding in on itself like cheap foil.

  As onlookers watched, the gondola’s engine flared once, lighting up the night, a flash of daylight in the dark, blinding everyone watching.

  And then the crushed gondola sank slowly to the bottom of the Broadway Canal.

  PART TWO

  ZAK

  KHALID

  MOIRA

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I thought there would be an explosion.”

  Khalid was disappointed. On the gondola, he had noticed an area of darkness where one of the oddly glowing lampposts along the canal wasn’t working. Taking advantage of the relative dark, he’d shouted for them to leap from the gondola before impact, hoping no one would notice them bailing out in the dark. Now the three of them floated at the opposite side of the canal, clinging to a ladder that was painted red and had an arrow with the word EMERGENCY pointing to it. This qualified.

  “I don’t think they use gas,” Moira said. She’d given up on her glasses and tucked them into a pocket somewhere, forcing her to squint to see him. “So no explosion. But you’re lucky you didn’t electrify the water or something.”

  “Sometimes it pays not to think ahead,” Khalid said smugly.

  “Shut up and get up the ladder.”

  Khalid hauled himself up. There was no one around, everyone having gathered a little way down the canal to gawk at the crushed gondola. He lay prone on the concrete and extended a hand to help Zak up.

  But down in the water, Moira was holding Zak under one arm as she fervently clung to the ladder with her free hand.

  “He can’t do it!” She was terrified. “Khalid, there’s something wrong with Zak!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Zak couldn’t breathe. At first he thought it was because he was in the water, but that didn’t make sense—his head was above the waterline. Something else was wrong. His lungs couldn’t hold the air. His chest refused to inflate.

  His hand, gripping the ladder, was numb with a thousand pins. His arm felt a mile long, disconnected from him. How was he even holding on?

  Someone was close to him. He could feel the touch of a hand, the press of a body against his. The warmth of it. Voices from far, far away came to him, sounding like the guardian angel who had become his brother, voices summoning him from one world to another, to life beyond death.

  “He can’t make it up the ladder.”

  Who was that? It sounded familiar.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Is that you, Tommy? he called in his mind. There was no answer. Maybe he’d lost his twin again. Which was worse—to never have him in the first place, or to lose him, then find him, then lose him again? Zak didn’t know.

  “Help me.” Moira. It was Moira’s voice. She was struggling with him, pushing him against the ladder. “Climb, Zak! Can you climb?”

  He wanted to. He truly did. With his eyes now open, Moira shivered into view before him, hair plastered to her head, face speckled with water and freckles. He tried to talk to her. Tried to explain that there was a pain inside him bigger than the world, and if he could just push it out, he’d be fine, really, he’d be perfectly fine and he’d be up that ladder in a jiff, but the pain refused to budge, nestled—no, lodged—in his chest, radiating out to his extremities.

  He opened his mouth. Water sloshed in. He tried to speak but only ended up coughing out the water.

  “Try this.” A voice from above. Again familiar. Khalid. Of course.

  Hands on him. Under his armpits. Hauling.

  Other hands. Moira’s? On his legs, pushing.

  His head lolled back and he stared at the sky, which seemed to get closer until everything went black.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Zak woke up to the sensation that his arms and legs had been taken away. Not cut off or pulled off—there was no pain at his joints. It was as though they’d just disappeared, leaving a disconnected head and torso.

  Reflexively, he lifted his right arm and was pleased to see it hover into view. It was numb, as were the rest of his limbs, but at least it was still there and under his command.

  “—wouldn’t even know where to start,” Moira said.

  “Well, we don’t have a choice,” Khalid said heatedly. “He’s—hey, he’s up.”

  They crouched down by Zak. “How are you, man?”

  Moira took his wrist and felt for his pulse.

  Zak took a moment to orient himself. There was some kind of box around his head. When he craned his neck—which took great effort—he could tell that he was lying on his back, his head and shoulders sheltered by a whitish crate of some sort. Outside the crate was an alleyway. Regardless of the universe, all alleyways looked roughly the same, it appeared; this place would have looked right at home back in his own version of New York.

  “Where are we?” he asked. Maybe they were home. Maybe he’d dreamed all of it.

  “Not sure,” Moira said. “We had to move quickly. Once we got you out of the water, we ducked into a side street, then kept moving.”

  “You carried me?”

  Khalid shook his head. “You were sorta kinda conscious. We had to support you, but you stumbled along.”

  Zak nodded and tried for a deep breath that he so achingly needed. It was impossible, his chest protesting even at a shallow one. “Trouble breathing,” he managed.

  And then he remembered: his verapamil. How long since he’d taken it? They’d probably been giving it to him at the hospital, but who knew how long it had been since his last dose.

  “Guys, I’m not good.” He knew his condition was bad, but saying so made it worse, and he had to stop not only to take a sip of breath but also to keep himself from panicking utterly. “Can’t breathe right. Chest is tight.” He felt someone squeeze his hand, and for a vertiginous moment couldn’t tell if it was right or left, Khalid or Moira.

  “We’ll figure this out,” Moira promised. “We’re going to get help for you.”

  It was Khalid squeezing the hand. Zak turned to look up at his best friend. “I feel really bad,” he said. Tears clustered in his eyes. Normally, he would be ashamed of crying in front of his friends—especially Khalid—but the fear and the compression in his chest drove the shame from him. “Don’t leave me, okay?”

  “Don’t worry—Moira’s gonna find medicine or a doctor or something. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You have to,” Moira said quietly. “You have to be the one to go.”

  “No way.” Khalid thrust out his jaw. “Not a chance. You’re the genius, Science Girl. You can find the right pills or the right doctor. My job is to stay with Zak.”

  Moira produced her glasses from a pocket and stared at the blotchy, spotted lenses for a moment before surrendering and tucking them away again. “Look, every time someone in this world sees me, it gets dramatic. The cop. The gondolier. Maybe it’s an Irish thing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Khalid clearly wasn’t interested in the conversation. He wanted Moira off on a medicine q
uest. Now.

  But even in his semi-lucid condition, Zak caught on, dredging up yet another one of Dad’s impromptu history lessons. He couldn’t summon the strength to explain, but fortunately Moira went on:

  “Once upon a time in this country, the Irish were practically slaves.”

  Khalid’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Like, when? Like, back before the Civil War?”

  Moira shrugged. Zak knew, though. He remembered his father telling him about the signs that read IRISH NEED NOT APPLY even as recently as a hundred years ago, a generation after the Civil War.

  Khalid whistled.

  Moira shrugged. “It’s my stupid hair. Maybe in this universe, people in America still hate the Irish, and they saw my red hair and flipped out.”

  “Well, we love you,” Khalid said.

  “Gee, thanks. That’s not going to help much, though. You have to be the one to go, Khalid. I can’t run around out there without attracting attention. You can. Take the stun-gadget thingy, just in case.”

  Zak nodded. “It’s cool, man,” he said.

  Khalid clearly didn’t want to go, but he bobbed his head as though psyching himself up and smiled grimly. “Okay. If you say so. I’ll be right back, you got it? Right back.”

  “What was your medicine called?” Moira asked. “Do you remember?”

  Did he remember? Of course he remembered. Taking his pill was a daily part of his life, as much a part of his routine as tying his shoes, pulling on his pants, or using a fork. There had been two names on the pill bottle: the brand name, Isoptin, and the generic name, verapamil. Zak gave both names and watched Khalid mouth them over and over again, memorizing them.

  Just as Khalid hopped up to leave, though, he smacked his fist into his palm. “Wait. Wait a sec. What if it’s a different name here?”

  Zak groaned, but Moira touched his forehead, calming him. “They speak English here,” she pointed out, “so the language developed similarly. Most medicines have Latin roots. They probably use them here, too. Even if it’s called something different here, a doctor should be able to figure out what we need based on the name. The people look like us, talk like us, live in a city like ours. Some things are inevitable—they’ll have a medicine for Zak.”