Forty Leap by Ivan Turner

while wiring was being
repaired, it did not compare to the rest of Manhattan. Stealing a
glance out the large windows I could see that almost every building
in view was swarming with workers. There were black drapes over
some buildings, but most were in current progress. Some were even
complete. Through their windows, I could see people going about
office business. The streets below were clean and repaired. Though
traffic was light, there was traffic.
    Three men in uniform appeared and came
forward, pushing their way through the throng of workers that had
gathered to watch me. I did not recognize the uniform. One of them,
clearly the leader, also began speaking to me in that
incomprehensible language.
    “I don’t understand,” I said.
    “Ah,” he replied. “English. You are American.
I could not tell under all of that filth.”
    It was a great joke. A couple of the men
laughed, betraying their understanding of English. I said
nothing.
    “Where did you come from?” he asked,
completely ignoring the chuckles behind him.
    “I don’t know,” I replied simply, it being
both the truth and a lie at the same time.
    “Do you understand that you are on United
Arab soil and, therefore, suspect of espionage?”
    “What day is it?” I asked quietly.
    This seemed to take him by surprise but his
recovery was quick. “You will be taken to a police house.”
    He said nothing else. A single gesture had
the other two men grabbing me by the arms and hauling me forward.
As I passed through the work areas, I could see that really only a
few of them were Arab. Most of the workers were American. They
looked healthy, but sad, these men and women. My appearance was
like a wave as I was taken through the rooms. People stopped work
as soon as I came through and turned to see me.
    “He looks like a refugee,” one woman
whispered. The man next to her responded with a sound of
disbelief.
    We stopped in front of a bank of elevators
and waited for one to arrive. The men in uniform were armed and
they kept their hands very close to their guns. I couldn’t decide
whether it was I who caused them concern or they just kept a
natural state of readiness. We moved into an elevator that smelled
of wood polish and rode down to the street without incident. I was
then ushered through a grand lobby and into the street, where a
police van was waiting for me. They shoved me into the dark rear
and locked the door behind me. It occurred to me that I had not
been handcuffed.
    I was able to look out the back of the van as
they drove me downtown. It was certainly Manhattan, but not the
Manhattan I remembered. Most of the structures that had survived
the invasion had been repaired, but there were many others that had
been replaced. All of the new ones displayed signs of Middle
Eastern architecture. The lettering on most of the shops and signs
was Arabic. There was some English, but most of it took the form of
rules and warnings. To be American in New York was to be clearly
second class. Once again, I wondered how much of my world was gone.
Did the United States even exist anymore? Previously, as I had
wandered the city with Jennie, I had learned very little.
    I was taken to what I would describe as a
precinct house. I had never been inside of a police station before
so I don’t know how this one compared with others. It certainly
looked different than the ones I had always seen on television. The
flooring in the lobby was white marble and there seemed to be a man
constantly cleaning it, an American man. There were several large
desks which allowed their occupants to tower over anyone who
approached. High above, great chandeliers added to the sunlight
that beamed in through the windows. We ignored and were ignored by
the workers in the building, my guards escorting me straight to the
rear and into a long corridor. Using stairs this time, I was
ushered downstairs where I was stripped of my clothing and
showered. They then shaved my beard and buzzed my head.