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The Flatlands
FLATLANDS WAS A neighborhood near the southern shore of Brooklyn between Canarsie and the coastal Marine Park. As with most New York City neighborhoods, it had undergone many significant demographical changes throughout the twentieth century. The library currently offered French-Creole books for Haitian residents and immigrants from other Caribbean nations, as well as reading programs in coordination with local yeshivas for children from Orthodox Jewish families.
Fet’s shop was a small storefront in a strip mall around the corner from Flatlands Avenue. No electricity, but Fet’s old telephone still gave out a dial tone. The front of the store was used mostly for storage, and not designed to service walk-in customers; in fact, the rat sign over the door was specifically meant to disc
ourage window shoppers. His workshop and garage were in back; that was where they loaded in the most essential items from Setrakian’s basement armory—books, weapons, and other wares.
The similarity between Setrakian’s basement armory and Fet’s workshop was not lost on Eph. Fet’s enemies were rodents and insects, and, for that reason, the space was filled with cages, telescoping syringe poles, black-light wands, and miners’ helmets for night hunting. Snake tongs, animal control poles, odor eliminators, dart guns, even throw nets. Powders, trapping gloves, and a lab area over a small sink, with some rudimentary veterinary equipment for taking blood or sampling captured prey.
The only curious feature was a deep stack of Real Estate magazines lying around a gnarly La-Z-Boy recliner. Where others might keep a stash of porn tucked away in their workshop, Fet had these. “I like the pictures,” he said. “The houses with their warm lights on, against the blue dusk. So beautiful. I like to try to imagine the lives of people who might live inside such a place. Happy people.”
Nora entered, taking a break from unloading, drinking from a bottle of water, one hand on her hip. Fet handed Eph a heavy key ring.
“Three locks for the front door, three for the back.” He demonstrated, showing the order of the keys as they were organized along the ring. “These open the cabinets—left to right.”
“Where are you off to?” asked Eph, as Fet headed for the door.
“Old man’s got something for me to do.”
Nora said, “Pick us up some takeout on your way back.”
“Those were the days,” said Fet, moving out to the second van.
Setrakian brought Fet the item he had carried in his lap from Manhattan. A small bundle of rags, with something wrapped inside. He handed it to Fet.
“You will return underground,” said Setrakian. “Find those ducts that connect to the mainland, and close them.”
Fet nodded, the old man’s request as good as an order. “Why alone?”
“You know those tunnels better than anyone else. And Zachary needs time with his father.”
Fet nodded. “How is the kid?”
Setrakian sighed. “For him, there is first the abject horror of the circumstances, the terror of this new reality. And then there is the Unheimlich. The uncanny. I speak here of the mother. The familiar and the foreign together, and the feeling of anxiety it inspires. Drawing him, and yet repulsing him.”
“You might as well be talking about the doc, too.”
“Indeed. Now, about this task—you must be swift.” He pointed to the package. “The timer will give you three minutes. Only three.”
Fet peeked inside the oil-stained rags: three sticks of dynamite and a small mechanical timer. “Jesus—it looks like an egg timer.”
“So it is. 1950s analog. Analog avoids mistakes, you see. Crank it all the way to the right, and then run. The small box underneath will generate the necessary spark to detonate the sticks. Three minutes. A soft-boiled egg. Do you think you can find a place to hide that fast down there?”
Fet nodded. “I don’t see why not. How long ago did you assemble this?”
“Some time ago,” said Setrakian. “It will still work.”
“You had this around—in your basement?”
“Volatile weapons I kept in the back of the cellar. A small vault, sealed, concrete wall and asbestos. Hidden from city inspectors. Or nosy exterminators.”
Fet nodded, carefully wrapping up the explosive and tucking the package underneath his arm. He moved closer to Setrakian, speaking privately. “Level with me here, professor. I mean, what are we doing? Unless I’m missing something—I don’t see any way to stop this. Slow it down, sure. But destroying them one by one—that’s like trying to kill every rat in the city by hand. It’s spreading too fast.”
“That much is true,” said Setrakian. “We need a way to destroy more efficiently. But, by that same token, I do not believe the Master to be satisfied with exponential exposure.”
Fet digested the big words, then nodded. “Because hot diseases burn out. That’s what the doc said. They run out of hosts.”
“Indeed,” Setrakian said, with a tired expression. “There is a greater plan at work. What it is—I hope we never have to find out.”
