The rules of crossing the bridge are simple. Also, it’s just one. Not sure why we call it rulessss. Maybe it just makes it sound more official. Who knows. But you’re sitting in my head, listening to my thoughts, so I’m not sure why I am explaining this to you, it’s like I’m explaining it to myself.
So, the RULE of the Bridge is simple: one soul goes out, and one soul gets to come in. One life in the Marcy Street Village, erected on the old M train station platform—a location, in Brooklyn of all places, I would never have deemed it acceptable to find myself in, but where I LIVE now by the way—when one life in the Marcy Street Village ends, goes up into the sky, off to meet their Maker, we let a wanderer crossing the bridge enter Brooklyn, and join our little camp.
It’s completely random. Whoever happened to decide to take their chances and cross the Bridge at that very moment. The signal comes through the ancient walkie talkies held together by literal thread: The next one to cross may enter. Whoever is coming across at that very moment gets to enter Brooklyn from the Manhattan side. They don’t know we have this rule. The Manhattanites. Or maybe they’ve figured it out. Who knows. They have figured out that trying to swim across leads to drowning with all those new currents coursing through the underbelly of the East River, which isn’t even really a river. There’s not that many of us in Brooklyn, which means that people don’t die that often, so if they do know—what a gamble. It’s quite surprising how infrequently we die, given the circumstances. I mean we mostly live off rats and whatever crop decides to not completely shit the bed that season. With the heat and the dust storms we have to grow most of our food in makeshift greenhouses, by which I mean plastic rooftop tents, to where we bucketed dirt and made makeshift water runoff system. So, vegetables are rare. We do still have vermin. So it’s like rat soup seven days a week, and on Sunday someone drops a tomato into it. What a treat we all say, and actually, yes, we mean it. Tomatoes taste amazing. But split between around a hundred people, the taste does get lost a little bit.
Then again, there is also the fact that the dying concerns everyone, except for my best friend Cyrus and me, the two old ones. But I’ll explain that in a minute. Just to say, that they HATE use, the young ones. Our immortality, insult to injury. I can’t really blame them for that. It’s like we took all the good things they never even got to experience, and then we continue to stick around as a fucking reminder. Really, really can’t blame them for wanting us to die. But alas.
Early light begins to creep in under my makeshift blinds of old Tupperware lids hole-punched and twined together, and I roll off my cot that takes up half my hut, pull on my pants of polyester, grab my pack and rifle and feel my way through the crap on the floor to find my boots. The air inside is stale, a slightly sour smell that I must assume is mine. To escape, I swing open the door like I own the saloon, wave to my spritely neighbors, and make my way through our little camp towards the stairs that lead down to Myrtle Ave.
I suppose it’s more than a camp by now. The young ones have seen to it. It’s surprisingly secure and safe from the floods that still routinely wash up and down Myrtle when the weather turns. I believe the young ones are PROUD of this little encampment. Fair, I have to hand it to them—it’s better than what lurks in the lower half of Manhattan. Now, THAT may not be worth staying alive for. The smell alone. I shudder at the memory. Your shit does smell weird after eating another human being. Or maybe that was just in my head.
Northern Brooklyn spreads out to my right, tall buildings still covered in graffiti, giant creatures that are supposed to be funny, or at least once were colorful. Now the weather has chipped away at everything. The tall buildings that poke out from in between the four-story apartments seem almost like their hunched, tired, wanting to lie down on the streets below. The air out here has a faint sulfur smell that I cannot figure out where it’s coming from. Single rows of huts just like my own, planks nailed together and draped in plastic sheets to keep out the dust, the rain, the sun when it beats down on us, dry box, hot box, everyone gets a box of their own. Some have decorated theirs, a random bicycle wheel adorned with twigs, sneaker wind chimes, and forgotten dolls, their eerie stares following you as you pass by. But the young ones don’t see these things as garbage, display them proudly from their huts.
I shuffle along the elevated platform of the M train, some of the greenhouses with our prized tomatoes on one of the buildings across from me in view and continue to say my hellos to the supple villagers. They smile back at me, restrained most of them, some give sincerity a try, and some just look back at me when I wave with a look of stone. Before heading down, I stick my head into the hut’s window and find that Cyrus has already left for our shift. A little disappointed, I make my way down the stairs and begin the walk, the almost full mile walk, alone over to the Domino Sugar Factory. You have to get closer to properly shoot at people. Can’t see them all way from here.
I feel lucky this morning, no floods, and I daresay, it’s NICE out. Sunny, which does make me pull my sleeves down all the way past my fingers. I’m pushing over one-twenty, so skin damage must be taken seriously. I can’t die a natural death. Doesn’t mean I want to look like a fucking raisin. Maybe this is why my biffl Cyrus has left me high and dry to make the trek this morning on my own. Good weather. Now that’s something to live for.
Rays of sunshine pierce through the slats of the above-ground subway as I pass underneath. A slight dust hangs in the air, painting the rays of sunlight like hanging bars, and I pass through them, like I can walk through prisons. It might be warm and sunny out, but I still pull my N245 over my mouth and nose, because I don’t want to be ugly, and I also don’t want to grow tumors. Immortality is only fun when you can get around.
My knees should be creaky, but they’re not. It was worth the money, I’ll say that. Yes, the news was telling me half of the world was either on fire, or drowning, and to be honest I couldn’t keep track which half was which. But even then, with things clearly going down the drain, when they started advertising the fountain of youth, with a price tag that made most people balk, I was first in line. I have always wanted to live forever.
It’s not that I willfully wanted to drag everyone down with me, that just kind of happened. Too many humans, not enough resources, that whole thing. The fountain of youth treatments didn’t exactly help that. But I did love the people closest to me. My children didn’t hate me, at least I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. But they also still lived in the city when shit really hit the fan, very likely were in Manhattan during the final reckoning, so they probably don’t hate much of anything these days. Or they’re so old they probably wouldn’t remember me anyway. Unlike me, they didn’t want to pony up the cash for the fountain treatment, the do-goodery they poured themselves into didn’t pay enough to make it seem worth it. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, when I offered them the money for the treatment, they didn’t exactly scoff. But they said no, and their refusal to undergo the treatment with me meant that they resented how much I was willing to spend on it. I was always about the money. They resented all the money. I did have a whole lot of it. Their refusal of the expensive treatment further distanced them from me and my money, the money they blamed for everything going wrong. Had blamed for decades by then. Had blamed since family dinners when they were still in high school. When they had learned of what the money did, they said. What my money did, they said. Learned that from the internet of all places. They could not be a part of it, froth from their pink, teenaged mouths, as they screamed over the filet mignon. Suit yourselves, I had said. And in my memory of this, my voice is stoic and controlled. But I also remember the anger in me then, and the ever, ever slightest tinge of that fear that comes when you know someone younger than you might be right. That fear that brings with it that feeling that you will forever to be too proud to admit this out loud.
The grandkids loved me though, I think. Grandma gave some killer Christmas presents. And they lived somewhere in Colorado when it got bad-bad, so they’re probably fine. Exhaling deeply with contentment, I forget I’m in a mask. Oy. Stinky. Do miss a good toothbrush. Colgate dreams. Crest, the best. Where is Cyrus? Cyrus got the treatment too. His entire family did. Unlike my family they didn’t just roll their eyes when Cyrus offered them to go for the fountain treatment, they said hell yes. Unlike my kids. And some people really don’t want to live forever. Some people don’t have that in them. So maybe during the final rising, they were not so afraid to meet their end. Maybe they didn’t even fight to stay alive. Meanwhile I was over here in Brooklyn, a lucky accident. I’ll never know what happened to them. But it was so long ago, all that remains is the echo of that feeling when I first heard.
The downward slope leading to Domino Park allows the load I’m carrying to feel slightly lighter. The rifle’s trigger pokes into my back with every step, bouncing prods, tshh-tshh-pop, tshh-tshh-pop. I’m not sure I will ever get completely, totally, used to shooting people I’ve never met, but one thing is for sure—I am really, really good at it. Also, it’s probably so easy, BECAUSE I’ve never met them. And my uncanny skill with a sniper? Blame video games, but man, I love the satisfaction of dropping those poor souls. You probably think I’m callous. Wait? Where ARE you anyway? Is this a time machine? If you’re from the before-times, then yes, you will think I’m callous. If you’re from after, you’ve probably eaten your cousin or some shit to survive, and quite frankly are you’re just wondering if we go to collect the free eatin’ after we drop the people on the Bridge.
The stairs up to the top of the D Factory top floor are arduous. This has nothing to do with my ancient knees. I’ve just never liked stairs all that much. And as much as I love living forever, I thought it would be in the lap of luxury, or at least further away from the lap of squalor. My Lord, one more to go. I pass Kelvin and Newton on their way down, the two young ones that have the night shift every other day before Cyrus and me. As the old evil fucks that destroyed the habitability for humans on this rock, my best friend Cyrus and I have been assigned far more shifts than anyone else. It’s not like you’re running out of time, the young ones tell us. Fair, fair, fair. Also, if you don’t pull your weight, we’ll shoot you, they say.
“He’s in a mood,” says Kelvin, “real agitated, kept asking when we were leaving, when you were coming in. You gotta get that guy under control, he’s antsier than a rat in a trap.”
“I will do my best.” I answer. But I know that once Cyrus gets into one of his moods there isn’t much I can do. It’s all, I miss my wife, I miss my daughter, I miss my stupid dog from like a hundred years ago named Bob Ross. We used to dress him up in a little painter’s costume. Why? I ask him: Was it Halloween? No, just for the fun of it. Good fucking God, I think to myself, and smile, picturing some sort of doodle in a painter’s cap. The things we did before humanity imploded.
“Seriously Jane, he’s off his fucking rocker. Like more than usual. I don’t know how he lands a single shot when he’s this fucking agitated.” Newton glances back at me as the two of them pass me going down the stairwell, and for a second, I think that they’ve caught on. It’s a good thing I am as good of a shot as I am. It’s a good thing I got here when I did, too. Left to his own devices, Cyrus is fairly useless.
But then Newton rolls his eyes, and I’m like 85 percent sure we’re in the clear. There are gaps here and there, in how I understand them. It’s strange when you’ve seen several generations of the young ones rotate through. Every generation seems to make up their own language, swear words, mannerisms. It’s hard to keep up. And when exactly did the word Frigidaire become a swear word? Like, what does that even MEAN?
I make my way up the final flight of stairs and enter the loft that makes up the top floor of the Dominoes’ Sugar Factory. The morning sun makes the old wood glow. I step onto the lake of golden sunlight.
“Cyrus. My man.” I call out. I sound pompous. Am I?
“Jane. My main.” He replies, holding his rifle all wrong and out the window.
“They must know.” I say, and he sighs, rolling onto his side, letting the weapon slide onto his gut, concave beneath his shirt.
“No, no, no. Pretty sure we fooled them again.” He waves at me like it’s no big deal, the gun aimed more recklessly with every breath he takes.
“For the love of all the gods there are, please put that away.” I cannot reason with this man.
“Wait, you think this thing is loaded?” He looks at me and we both have a real good laugh at that.
“I’m assuming no one has come across the bridge?” I take over his spot at the window, a clear view of the mile I am meant to protect. “I mean, we haven’t heard word of any new members in the village,” Cyrus replies.
We have another laugh at this, though a little weaker. It would be nice to have someone new. Maybe someone new and old like us. Someone else to reminisce with about how things used to be. Let’s speak of the things we destroyed, but also loved, but also destroyed. What fun. Oh, you’re ancient, too? Come here often? No? Barely escaped Death? Do go on.
The rifle has been cradled for less than thirty minutes before I pop off the first round.
“Boop.” I say. Oh, he brought a friend, this one. “Boop. Boop.” And then: “Man, I’m good at this.” No modesty, no modesty.
“You know, you could teach me.” Cyrus interjects as the hours stretch on, and the boopings multiply.
“Not after last time, Cyrus.” We don’t laugh at this. It was a gory lesson. Cyrus must have hit that poor soul in sixteen different spots. Sixteen. Who knew the human body could withstand that many bullet wounds? At that point we decided to let the poor sucker cross the bridge. He had earned it. I mean, we also, honestly just kind of wanted to see how he was still alive. To get up close and see this superhuman specimen. Big. Fucking. Mistake.
We watched the guy get as far as he could and out of sight from up here. This was good for us, because our mistake would go unnoticed by the young ones for the duration. But then we had to wait for the next shift to take over before we could go find the injured man. I think our plan was to give him safe harbor, though I’m not sure how that would have actually worked out. All of Brooklyn is strictly regulated. An additional person, especially one bleeding from sixteen different holes, was unlikely to go unnoticed. There would be a trail.
When the next shift came to relieve us, we scampered into the dark, like two ancient dogs looking for their lost pup. And we found him. Just where the Bridge meets the street. For some inexplicable reason the guy was clutching one of those concrete stumps that stops cars from driving over the bridge, which now that I think about it, seems like quite a hoot. He was clutching that post like it was the last raft on the Titanic. And he had frozen in place. I don’t know why we assumed he’d live, there wasn’t a universe. And since we had taken so long to find him, his muscles had entered into that state of unmoving that occurs several hours after death, he was rigored, and wrapped around that damn stump.
It took Cyrus and I almost an hour to pull him back into a straight enough position to peel him off, and to drop his L-shaped body into the river. It was messy. And showers are somewhat hard to come by these days. Let’s just say, that somewhere between the blood bath and this guy’s last embrace, I will never, ever let Cyrus shoot a gun again. He may be the worst shot in all of Brooklyn. Hence the rouse.
“At least let me look. I’m bored.” Cyrus groans from behind me. Cyrus is my last tie to when I was rich and successful, and what I think may have been happy. So here we are. Me, covering for him, and getting slack for it.
“Bored? You get to read all day, while I do the murders.” I feel close to nothing as I take down another one. Pink little hat, dark blue pants. Orange sneakers, nice. I’m not sure what compels these people to run across the bridge. Especially when I pop so many in a row, it’s not like they don’t see it. It must be desperation. Or maybe the fact that no one ever told them about the Rules of the Bridge, and no one has put it together yet. Do they even talk to each other? What is their societal structure over there?
The afternoon passes and Cyrus gets bored and annoying enough that I let him look through the scope. Whenever someone comes across, he yells: “Boopy time!” And I drop my book to boop. It makes it all a little more fun, I must admit, and I am getting through a large chunk of “Tender is the Night”, which I find very pleasurable.
“What do you miss most?” Cyrus mumbles against the scope, and I can tell he’s torn somewhere in between feeling the importance of hypothetically safeguarding Brooklyn, and that mood of his that has been teetering on the edge of melancholy all day.
“Quiet time to read.” I reply without looking up. It’s one of the beach scenes, and I would love to finish it before we have to go back to Marcy Street Village.
“No, really.” Cyrus says. It’s so quiet up here that I can hear him lick his lips.
“Fine.” I groan. At least when I tell him of my own shit, he won’t bring up the damn Bob Ross dog. Or his daughter. I mean the daughter. The one that must still be alive. He can just feel it. For a while he said he was getting message from her. That she saw him from across the river one day with binocs. In a real slum, she is, he said. But I knew it was bullshit and eventually he shut up about it. Someday he’ll hopefully also shut up about the dog.
“What I miss most.” And even though I can be an ass most of the time, somberness creeps into my voice, because I actually do miss people and I actually do feel like we fucked it all up, and I really am so fucking sorry.
“What I miss most, is blowjobs.” I say, exasperated. “None of the young ones will touch me.”
“I fucking hate you.” Cyrus says.
“You fucking love me.” I retort. Or rather, he needs me. Sometimes I wonder how much of our friendship is just because we are the only old ones in Marcy Street Village, or the fact that if it wasn’t for me, the young ones would pretty much immediately figure out that Cyrus can’t shoot for shit, and that the boop numbers we rack up are my trigger finger, and my trigger finger alone.
“I miss so much.” Cyrus trails off. I can almost feel how anxious he is. It’s weird. It’s like, worse than it has ever been before. It ripples through the room.
“Hey man, are you okay?” I look up from what may turn into a threesome, and find my nose pressed up against the end of a barrel.
“What the fuck?” I manage.
“I’m sorry Jane, but she’s here, and rules are rules.” Cyrus looks anguished, but not THAT anguished.
The thought: but we can’t die, flushes through my brain.
“Oh, you Frigidaire motherfu.”