Chapter 28.
The Rockettes, so I heard, are the East Coast wannabe Amazons. They know it all, they act tougher than they need to be. I'm an ex New Yorker, I can say without hesitation that they're garbage. Pretty, but garbage. No comparison to a Vegas Show Girl. And they know it. So they do the next best thing, and talk themselves up by putting everyone else down.
The Vegas girls, I know them personally, or did anyway. Their stories are believable. They're more live and let live. Like George. Only he kills from time to time, but that's occupational, not personal. The Vegas girls have been setting up villages for the villagers. A new age Peace Corps. Their only shortcoming is they are zombie lovers. Instead of killing zombies, they store them away. Weird. Worse, they pass this idea of zombie love to the clueless natives.
The Rockettes, however, feed the natives with ideas that the zombies can be a commodity. Like how Dodge was using them. I guess it was only a matter of time before the living monsters started taking advantage of the dead ones. Instead of letting the zombies live out their lives like zombie Elvis and zombie Grindstone, they started enslaving them. George tells me that carriage business was not Dodge's either. Just another idea Dodge was taking credit for.
Anyhow, the Rockettes deal more with slave traders and drugs. As the Canadians pushed down south with their Canadian ways, the Rockettes pushed down south with their ways. Stupid, petty ways. Definitely not live and let live, more survival of the fittest. Two different ways of looking at the same thing, I know. I tend to think of the philosophies as fish stick and otter pops. Both come from the freezer. One tastes OK if you cook it, one tastes OK if you eat it frozen. But try to mix and match how you eat them, you can end up in a big mess. Dealing with Rockettes can be a messy affair, I’d just as soon go out east and try to get to Riley Jr. before the slave traders do.
Barba talks to George the rest of the night, we walk for miles, and cross the river we’ve been following using a rope bridge.
"One at a time, Senor."
"I know the routine, George."
Fortunately, no zombies this time. No zombies the next day, or the next day either. But that’s par for the course. Barba is now a fugitive. If her village finds she went back to the Rockettes from where she came, she will be shunned. At the same time, she will never be allowed back into the Rockettes village...too ugly. I feel bad for her. She is a she-man without a nation. Even a slave is more wanted.
By nightfall of the third day, we reach a large enclosed village. White plastic fencing ten feet high goes either way as far as the eye can see. Inside the fence is a wall of jungle. Outside, clear cut high grass fields. I can't see a gate along the fence. But I see watch towers every quarter mile or so.
"No welcoming committee, huh?"
"Shh, be still." We are all three quiet, and we hear faint little bells jingling through the grass.
We all look at each other. George says to Barba, "El gato?"
She says, "Si."
"They sound like cats," I say. Utoh. Jaguars!
We start running back to the way we came, and the jingling grows louder and louder.
"The trees!" George says.
“What about that standing still business?” I ask.
“That’s only if you can see them, Senor,” George yells as he’s high stepping.
We run to the tree line about a half mile away. It looks like it is way too far. But we run nonetheless. I'm way out in front, the girl a close second. George is out in distant third.
I stop, and Barba runs past, and she stops near me. "No, no!" I say. "Run. Make it to the choppah!"
"Si!" she says. (There's no chopper, for clarity's sake, it's a phrase that is common parlance in post-apocalyptic times.)
I wait for George to come up. He has his six shooters in each hand. His hat is dangling behind him, and he's huffing and puffing.
"Just shoot them, George! Scare them off!"
"No can do, Senor. The Rockettes hear the gunshots, then we goners for sure. Better to take chances with wrestling the jaguars."
The jingling has stopped as we reach the tree line. Barba finds a good tree to climb, and we follow her up it. The jaguars roar in frustration off in the deep grass.
"We sleep hear tonight. In morning, we take our chances. Buenas nochos, Senor...Senorita," George says. Before either Barba or I can say goodnight, he is snoring loudly.
Barba offers me one of her massive legs to sleep on, and I'm too tired to be modest. When we wake up, she is hugging me. She goes to awaken George.
"No, no. Don't do that. He's a real bear in the mornings."
She just looks at me. I climb down and motion for her to do the same. I point to the rising sun, and pretend I'm a jaguar that's afraid of the sunlight. She laughs, and when she does, I can see the bit of the show girl in her. She has a nice smile, even if her face is hairy.
We walk towards the fence, and we start hearing the jingling again. I grab a stick off the ground and start waving it around, "Hey Jaguar!" I yell.
Barba does the same, she even repeats, "Hey Yag-War!"
Close enough.
We keep the jaguars at bay, and we make it to the fence. There's a drawn path of a sentry about twenty feet from the fence. I'm wondering why there were no lookouts in the towers. Maybe they're abandoned. I don't know. Neither does Barba.
We make our way to the main gate, or at least, a really ornate looking entrance. It looks like the entry way to Disney World. Trimmed bushes, flowers. Cut grass, and an imposing gate. I'm hoping Barba knows how to get in, but she is clueless.
We look around, and there's a buzzer. I press the buzzer, and gibberish comes out of the speaker. Barba responds. Then there's a pause. And a different woman answers, and this gibberish is way more authoritative sounding. Barba starts to leave, and I say, "Wait a minute, talk to them some more."
"Who is that with you, Barba?" the speaker says.
"It's just me, I'm a friend. I'm harmless. The young lady is a former, I don't know… what do you people call yourselves?"
"Amazons," says the speaker.
"OK, I thought maybe you went by Rockettes. Hello. We're here on a peaceful mission. Can you let us in, maybe?"
"We are the one true Amazons," the speaker says.
"That's very nice. There are also some very true jaguars out here. This girl sprouted from somebody's loins in there, you know. So maybe, can you show some compassion?"
We're answered with silence. (Actually, hissing static).
"Even some security, please," I say. "Just maybe meet us at the main gate here. We're not a ruse. There's nobody here but us. Well, there's a Mexican out in the jungle, but he's not a morning person. Please. Let us in."
I look at Barba and bite my lower lip and shrug. Maybe it worked?
A Rockette comes walking towards the gate, and by gum, she makes poor Barba look ugly again. And it's not even by how pretty the Rockette is, with the long smooth legs, and the effortless gait, and the flowing black hair, and full lips, and sultry eyes, and button nose. And the overall smell of intoxicating feminine perfume. Barba wilts into herself.
The Rockette stands behind the gate, doesn't look like she is going to let us in. She's looking past me, and stares down Barba.
"Thank you kindly, miss. As you can see, it's just us. We have no weapons; these sticks were to scare away your cats." I throw the stick, "We mean you no harm. I'm just a slave, and this here is-"
"-She is my daughter," the Amazon says.
She just stares daggers into poor Barba.
"Oh, isn't this a nice family reunion then?" I say.
Silence.
"Well, do you think it possible, miss-"
"No!"
Then Barba starts talking gibberish. Then her mom does. This goes on until they are both in tears. Aha, yep. No matter how tough the broad, the water works is universal.
Barba goes to leave, and I stop her.
"Just go!" her mom says.
"No, no, wait a minute, miss
. Now, I admit, I don't know Portuguese, but these rules you people got, I gotta say, they ain't right."
The New Yorker in me comes out, and is met with the New Yorker within the mother. I should say, the mother looks no older than thirty, but she is probably my age. And for the vanity sake of the pretty woman behind the gate, I will refrain from telling you what that age is.
"What do you know about right and wrong, Shorty?"
"Oh, you see, miss. Name calling is uncalled for. We can be civil, can't we? In all of this? With the zombies, and the tribal warfare, and the drugs your other daughter is wrapped up in?"
I throw out the line, and see if she bites the bait.
"Our rules are in place for a reason. Survival of the fittest. I have no daughters."
"Then how can you be her mother, miss? Just a moment before, ain't that what you said? Come on. This one here is the good egg. That other one of yours, I can't say as much for."
I tug on the line a bit.
"You leave my daughters out of this! I cannot believe you would bring up the weaknesses of others! Have you no couth? Have you no manners? Why must you pry into family business like this? Do you have a degree in psychology, sir?"
She took the bait and is pulling me off the boat. She goes on this long tirade about me having to mind my own business. I egg her on, and then I wait before I yank the line and jab in the hook.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, lady, blah blah blah. Let's go, Barbs, we don't need their help."
"Tiara, why do you stand there, and let this man abuse your mother?" Then she catches herself speaking English, and starts babbling Portuguese. I let Barba...or Tiara, as is her true name, beat me black and blue, and her mother opens the gate, and they embrace. Then there's a whole lot of crying, some hugging, and then the mother hits Tiara some. Then they both beat me up. Then finally, we all three go in the gate.
"You serve my daughter well. You are a worthy and faithful servant. New York?"
"You can't pick where you're born, can you?" I say.
Soft, windy tree lined path. Nice shade. We do a lot of walking before we even see a building. But when we do, palace central. All new construction, it doesn't even feel like South American anymore. I smell diesel burning somewhere, so it's not utopia, but it's a nice place.
"So what's this place called?" I ask.
"South New York," the mom says.
"No kidding..."
We walk up the stairs to the palace, and it's one of those open aired places. Lots of cross breezes keep the place cool. There's an abundance of plants inside, and even an atrium in the middle of the place. Terraces, five stories up, encircle the atrium. It's a bit too new-age for my tastes, but calling it anything less than a palace would be disgracing the craftsmanship.
We turn right, into this dining hall. Long table, lots of china, silverware, a few fellow slaves. I nod my head to them, but they just stare straight ahead as we walk by. We walk into the kitchen, and it's spotless. White porcelain, energy saving florescent lights, sky lights lines the ceiling. Stainless steel that goes on forever.
"No refrigerators?" I ask.
"We eat only fresh food here, and we never have left overs. Leftover food is the work of a sloppy chef, just as left over timber is the sign of an unskilled craftsman. Wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I tend to be wordy in my writings, if I had an editor, you could ask him."
She offers us some fruit. We're both famished, and we eat like pigs. Juice running down our faces, I got bits of strawberries stuck in the front of my lips that I just mash in with more strawberries. We eat like animals, and I'm waiting any moment for the mother to say something. But she doesn't.
She reads my mind as I wipe my face with my tattered shirt. "A hearty appetite is a good thing to behold. It shows a strong spirit."
"I don't know, I always thought eating like a slob made me uncouth." Zing. It doesn't faze her. Women have no flair for zingers. She ignores the dig, and gets us fresh grape juice. Not tart or wine like at all.
"Now this, miss. This can go bad, right? If it goes bad, does that mean it's wasteful?" I ask.
"No. That means its wine. What is your point?"
"Well, to be honest, miss. I'm not big on making points. I just tell em as I see em. Right now, you got two daughters living in a village that's being used to process drugs. Now this one here, like I said out there by the gate, she's the good egg. Your other one, let's say she's the prettier one-"
"Her name is Olga," her mom says. I watch Tiara's reaction, and sure enough Tiara fidgets when she hears this name.
"See that, miss?" I say. "This one here. Well, not to put too blunt an edge on it, but she lives in so much fear of Olga, it's almost like she's a s-la-v-e." I spell out slave.
"My daughters don't speak swine, sir. We don't believe in teaching any of the old ways, here. So there is slavery, but not of the strongest. Weaklings, no offense, need rulers."
I ignore her insult. "None of the old thinking in South New York, huh? Not what I see out in the field, miss. Not too far from here was a village, wiped out now, but they were learning English. Nothing wrong with that, right? I know a little Spanish. Nothing wrong with broadening your horizons, is there?"
"Well, I am glad you report it has been wiped out."
She's cold. She's like that Vegas leader, Sophia. I can still see her wiggling her head like a cobra. This one is a cobra too.
She squeezes my arm, chastises me. "You know, my parents moved to New York many years ago. I wonder what your parents said about them. Do you think Puerto Ricans were so welcome in New York back then? Do you think the Spanish store signs, and the delis turned into bodegas were...broadening horizons? No. They were intimidated into submission. Their native ways had to be abandoned to survive."
"I went to school with all types, miss. Look at me. Does my size look like it could intimidate minorities?"
"I was intimidated, sir. Many of us were that came to live here. It's why we didn't set out for Amish country back in New York. We came back home, where we belonged. "
"Ma'am. Ma'am. I'm not here to discuss ideologies. Much less geography, because we’re a long way from New York and just as far from Puerto Rico. I leave that to the egg heads such as yourself. It's beyond me, and to be honest, with this being, you know, the swan song of humanity...can't we all just get along? For the little time we have left? Know what I mean?"
"I didn't follow any of that,” she says. “But since you say you're not here to discuss ideologies, why are you here, then? So I have two errant daughters. As for my daughters, our ethos cannot be broken if they are to stand the test of time. Survival of the fittest. I'm afraid this little excursion of yours was futile."
"Well, miss, maybe it was, maybe it was. But you served a hell of a breakfast, and on behalf of your daughter Tiara, I thank you."
"A slave talking for my daughter? Doing that would be an insult. The strong take what they want, survival of the fittest."
"Even when they take your own children to peddle drugs with?"
She looks at me and pouts her lower lip, and admonishes me. "We've been over that. Slave traders and drug pushers are doing us all a favor. They are ridding the world of the inferior. As time goes on, only the strongest will survive."
I look at her and shake her hand, "That just means hate's perpetual, ma'am. And I don't buy what you’re selling. Just like I don't buy that survival of the fittest nonsense. No offense."
She looks at me and laughs, "None taken. Good luck."
"Same to you, lady. Let's go Tiara, we ain't welcome here."
We walk out the kitchen, through the dining room. The slaves look at me different now, because I'm leading the way. I’m on a mission. Our footsteps echo as we go through the atrium, out the palace and down to the gate. Under the canopy of trees that shades the path.
"I know you don't speak English, Tiara, and I don't speak that gobbility-gook. But if I did, I'd say you were better off not knowing your roots. They're buried
in dried out soil. Start fresh. Kill chickens for a village that ain't stomping cocaine into bricks all day. There's more to life then hanging around in some tawdry village in your mother's spider web of a city here. You're better than that, even if you do look like an ape."
She smiles at me and holds my arm. We go like that out the gate, arm in arm, and we both sing to the jaguars as we walk through the fields into the bright sunny day.
We get back to the jungle where we left George. He ain't here. Maybe it's the wrong place. We follow the tree line, and then double back. Tiara climbs the tree we were in. She shouts something and points, but I can't see it.
I hear thunder. The sun is shining? Sometimes a rogue thunderstorm moves in during the dry season. It happens.
Tiara climbs back down, and she's jumping up and down, and beckons me to follow her. We run out into the grass, and the thunder is growing louder and louder.
Out of nowhere, George appears. He's riding high in the saddle on a Tennessee walker. All legs, and a wide body. He's got another Tennessee walker on a leader behind him. No saddle. Then he's got a smaller paint. Brown horse with a white stripe going down her nose. She's got a fine saddle, and an ornate brass horn.
"I got the horses from the girl’s mother," George explains.
"Huh? What? She was the most condescending witch this side of the Andes, George. How did you manage that?"
"I climb the fence. I go to the stables. I take the horses. I break through the gate. The mother, she screaming after me. But there is no time for this, have you ridden a horse, Senor?"
I grab the leader and jump on. The horse snorts. "George, I am five foot two. Never ask a man whose five two if he's ridden a horse. Heeyaaa!" I kick the horse into action, and race around George and Tiara.
She climbs her horse, and she's off racing, long black hair flowing behind her. George takes off after her, and I chase after him. We ride east, fast across the grasslands, never looking back.