I would always need far more time to wind Marie-Louise than she would need to wind me. It may have been wretched of me, but I couldn’t resist teasing her about it.
Fè vit! I would yell into the aetherlink wired inside my mouth and left cheek when I saw Marie-Louise approaching in the distance. Hurry up!
Fèmen dyòl ou! she would yell back at me. Shut up!
Once Marie-Louise made it to my side, I would tell her: I've reached the rendezvous point before you because I am younger. Because I was built long after you.
Non, Marie-Louise would respond, se pa vre. You know that’s not true, at all. Papa nou always sends me on the most difficult route because I am stronger. That’s why I take longer.
She was right, of course. But I refused to admit it.
Then, let’s race, I would say to her, as she wound me.
Se dakò, she would answer. Fine. But not here. Wait until—
But I never waited. I was off, ak tout vitès—like a shot—before Marie-Louise could finish her sentence.
The survivors out West would always laugh at that. You are both graceful, they would tell us. You both run like the wind on a fierce day of endless storms. You are greyhounds.
Non, Marie-Louise would tell them. We are dogs, sent to fetch.
Zonbi Robot is frustrated. The stack in the middle of its back now belches with every stomp. It has laid waste to much of the Near North Side.
The smoke drifting up from the new landscape it has wrought curls about its legs, clinging, wanting to tag along. It’s darker. More acrid. Within some of the craters Zonbi Robot has stomped, I can see the soft glimmer of fire.
If Zonbi Robot continues on like this, all of Chicago will be ablaze in no time. And I’m only halfway to Lake Michigan.
The survivors out West used to call me Mary Sundown. They used to call my slower half, my twin, my sister, Mary Midnight.
Damn Westerners! Marie-Louise had said about that. Always changing things! I’m certain behind our backs they call us dogs!
I’d been surprised by her bitterness. I didn’t know where it had come from. I'd thought greyhounds were regal dogs. Beautiful. Graceful. Very much like Marie-Louise and me.
It was obvious to me that when papa nou built us—and all of his children—he'd had that particular breed of dog in mind.
Just look at me. My build is lanky and slim, like theirs had been. My legs are long and powerful, like theirs had been. And my spine and hips, though copper-laced, are flexible, like theirs had been.
Vrèman vre—truth be told—I'd thought it was a compliment to be compared to a greyhound. But for Marie-Louise, it was an insult.
Now that I think about it, Marie-Louise’s bitterness could have stemmed from the reasoning behind the nicknames the survivors had given us.
They called me Mary Sundown because I always arrived on time, the moment the sun dipped down below the horizon. And they called Marie-Louise Mary Midnight because she always arrived at the rendezvous point in the dark of night. Well after me.
Every single time.
I suppose I would be bitter, too, if I always lost to my twin sister.
Speaking of bitter, Zonbi Robot seems a bit rancorous about losing this fight with me right now.
Its frustration turns to anger, and it’s not long before it has its Dahlgren guns going full on. The explosions are much louder above ground.
And much more violent.
I falter and stagger every time Zonbi Robot’s missed shot slams into a structure—sometimes, a burgeoning skyscraper, sometimes, a house. Concrete and wood and steel go flying, end over end. I have to reduce my speed down to twenty-five miles an hour.
I’m not happy about that.
And then, the lethargy sets in.
The herky-jerky movement. It’s as if I’m running with a bear on my back.
Fout.
Before papa mwen died, desan rekòt kafe pase—two hundred coffee harvests ago—he told us how the land came back after the bombs dropped.
Each night, he would wind all four hundred of his children before bed, deep down in the tunnels under the city. His gnarled hands pained him much, but he would still smile as he recounted how Bèl Flè—his beautiful flower—gave birth to Chicago again.
Bèl Flè had been a sickly child, he would begin, wincing as he reached up to wind the keys in each of our left shoulder blades. One by one, we stood in a line, and one by one, he wound us.
Polio had ravaged her organs, he would continue. Manman li, her mother, took Bèl Flè to a steam surgeon, which was quite fortunate. This particular steam surgeon happened to know metallurgy and glasswork.
Here, papa mwen would pause, and try to massage the arthritic pain from his left hand with his right one. My brothers and sisters and I would stand silent in the dim underground hangar, waiting for his next words, with patient obedience. We knew the story. And yet, we enjoyed it. Bèl Flè had birthed us, as well.
Manman li, papa mwen would continue, begged the steam surgeon to fix ti pitit li, her little one. And, oh, did he fix her.
The steam surgeon put Bèl Flè into a deep sleep, and then removed all her dying organs. But don’t fret, pitit cheri mwen yo. Gone was her sickness.
Again, papa mwen would stop to rub his left hand. If he’d had a good day, he would be more than halfway finished winding our left shoulder blade keys. But if his body was feeling its age, he would have shuffled through only a quarter of us.
But always, he pressed on. We had packages and messages to deliver to survivors in the morning.
Unbeknownst to Bèl Flè ak manman li, papa mwen went on, the steam surgeon had, days before, built a steam clock heart. He’d been saddened by the children whose hearts had weakened from the polio epidemic sweeping Chicago.
By this time, papa mwen would have finished winding our left shoulder blade keys and moved on to the right ones. And still we stood, listening.
Oh, pitit cheri mwen yo, my dear little children, the steam surgeon placed that steam clock heart into Bèl Flè with the utmost care. Tapping our chests with a crooked finger, papa mwen would then smile and say, It was very much like the one you have now.
But that wasn’t all he gave Bèl Flè, papa mwen would say, his eyes sparkling with delight as he told his tale. To ensure cheri mwen and her steam clock heart worked, he also gave Bèl Flè a compost boiler, fed by the highest quality coal dust. And to protect it all, he bound her entire torso with unbreakable glass.
Papa mwen would pause again to rub his right hand with his left, but he shuffled faster. The best part of the story was coming soon.
It’s unmistakable now. My gears, my cogwheels, are slowing. I’m winding down. I can run no more than a few steps.
But this is good. I've reached the shores of Lake Michigan.
Zonbi Robot lumbers after me. Its Dahlgren shell guns are spent. Chicago burns behind it.
The city is lost. But Jean Baptiste Point du Sable will be safe. I have kept my promise.
A few more stomps, and Zonbi Robot shall blunder neatly into my trap.
That steam surgeon was a very clever man, papa mwen continued, as he wound the keys in our left hips. Every three weeks, Bèl Flè’s compost boiler would produce the most pristine, rich and loamy soil this green Earth has ever seen.
But even cleverer than him was Bèl Flè mwen. My beautiful flower.
Papa mwen would smile with pride as he told this part.
For days on end, Bèl Flè mwen spread that purified soil from her chest upon the scorched lands and glowing ash, never tiring. Day after day, she did this. And when those long days turned to years, she still did not tire.
Not even when the green grass grew and the plants and trees sprouted. Or when the storm clouds gathered, and the rain fell from the sky, and the fish swam again in Lake Michigan.