Draconic Plague

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. In fact, three days ago, there wasn’t even a valley. I’m standing in the middle of Queens Boulevard, a bottle of pepper spray clenched in one white-knuckled fist. In front of me is a toppled over traffic light, a yellow taxi with its rear end jutting out from a grassy foothill, and a twenty-foot tall lizard with wings. Or I guess you could call it a dragon, if you’re into that kind of thing. Personally, I’m having a real hard time coming to terms with the Game of Thrones episode I’ve stumbled into. And I’ve never even watched that show. TV just isn’t my thing; my job keeps me so busy I can’t relax. Whenever I am able to relax, I’ll curl up in the bath and read a couple chapters of the newest spicy rom-com my friend Kylie recommended. Now that I’ve been unemployed for three days, you would think I’d have time to watch a couple episodes of something, but instead I’m pepper spraying a dragon. Yep, that’s me, Hannah Garcia—the very definition of relaxed.

The dragon lifts its head and breathes a cloud of smoke in my general direction. Its gigantic talons scrape against the crumbled mainstreet. I narrow my eyes and raise the pepper spray. There are people running on all sides of me, screaming obscenities. One of them trips over their own feet trying to get away, then yells “fucking nutcase!” over their shoulder. I barely give them a second thought. This dragon has no idea what it's up against, and truth be told, neither does New York. I moved here three months ago after graduating with a business-marketing degree from a local Canadian university; a large cell phone company hired me as a foreigner to handle social media relations. Moving to the city was like walking blindfolded into a pack of hungry lions. During my daily commute I’ve been harassed, spat on, honked at, and nearly run over by angry taxi drivers. Just the other day, I was late for my first staff meeting because somebody fell on the tracks and the train lurched to a stop, causing me to spill scalding hot coffee all over my blouse.

It was during that meeting, actually, that this whole catastrophe occurred. I went to the bathroom to check my makeup and ease my nerves, when suddenly the whole building heaved, wobbling and lurching like a drunk teenager. I ducked under the sink and hugged my knees to my chest, trying to decide if it was a bomb or an earthquake. But ten seconds later, there was nothing. The building settled, sinking a couple inches deeper into the earth, groaning from the effort. I crawled out from beneath my hiding place and rushed downstairs to the lobby. Usually, I would see the heart of Manhattan spread out before me like a circuit board. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the Valley.

Our building was entrenched onto a foothill of soft, rolling grass and budding wildflowers. I watched, mesmerized, as the wind took off with a parcel of dandelion seeds and sent them raining over Broadway. The massive LED advertisements that used to ignite the city were now blackened and shattered. What used to be an eight-foot sidewalk was now a babbling brook the startling colour of glacier silt. A homeless man stood in the middle of it, hiking his trousers up to his knees, grinning like it was his birthday.

There was a new taste in the air, too—a light scent that somehow personified the flowers, the water, and the clear blue sky, making it real. Emphasizing its existence. I breathed in and closed my eyes involuntarily, taking this new smell into my bones, burying it inside of myself. I thought, briefly, that it reminded me of home. I saw myself, ten years old, hiking the rails to trails in British Columbia. And that was when the magic ended. I opened my eyes, glaring at the sun sinking over the valley, turning the sky into a melting pot of cotton candy. Of course something like this would happen to me, I remember thinking, gnawing on the corner of my lip. I finally had my life under control. I had a new job, a new apartment, and new friends to get wine drunk with. I was happy. Couldn’t the universe see that?

There was only one guiding thought in my mind. Now that my employer’s company was buried beneath a mountain, what would happen to my visa?

I hold the pepper spray in one hand. Tucked neatly beneath my arm is my resume and a flyer I found pinned to a telephone pole, the bottom corners lifting slightly with the breeze. Hastily scrawled in large cursive, it read:

HELP WANTED

Position: Director of Sales & Marketing

We are an industry leading solutions provider to the Valley with operations throughout NYC. Now met with a strange and hostile landscape, we provide the tools New York residents need to survive. Whether scavenging, or dragon hunting, our service model ensures customers’ needs and expectations are met.

There is an address at the bottom, detailing when and where to apply. I need to commute to the Highline, where I’ll meet someone named Sam, who the flyer says will be wearing a bright red jacket and carrying a “spear.” Miraculously, the subway system is still working. If I’m quick enough, I can catch the train and arrive fifteen minutes early, as is the standard for interviews. There’s only one problem: I need to take the elevator to the Queens Boulevard line, and this dragon is getting in my way.

The creature takes another step toward me. Its limbs are like tree trunks falling in a storm; they move as if in slow motion, only to come crashing down against the pavement, making craters. The shock of the contact reverberates up my spine and I shudder. It unhinges his jaw, a plume of smoke gathering in the back of its throat, sparking with embers. I shove the pepper spray inside its mouth and shoot. The dragon recoils, so I aim for the eyes next, a stream of white-hot pepper spray coating its face in a spiderweb. The building next to me quakes as the dragon falls against it, roaring like one of those carnivorous dinosaurs from Jurassic Park. I think it’s being a little dramatic. I volunteered to get pepper sprayed in a Women’s Self Defence class a few months ago, and it really wasn’t all that bad. While the dragon is making a fuss, I run between its legs and dive for the elevator, slamming my fist over the down button.

The alley passes over my head as I descend rapidly into darkness. The lights of the elevator flicker and the floor rumbles beneath me. It smells like new tires, then I wrinkle my nose when I realize it smells more like brakes burning. Suddenly the elevator stops, coughing me up onto the platform like a wad of gum that went down the wrong pipe. I stumble forward just as the train arrives, a squealing hunk of steel that’s only still in service because the line is automated. The doors slide open, and there is a pleasant, singular beep. As I take a moment to straighten my jacket then saunter inside, I meet the gaze of another commuter, sitting cross-legged in the corner of the train and watching me levelly. She has dark skin and short black hair, cut straight against the length of her jaw, as sharp as a razor. The longer she stares, the more disgusted she looks. Her nose turns up as she drinks in my heels, my beige pantsuit, the crystal ovals that dangle from my ears. “Where on earth are you going,” she says in a guttural voice, “dressed like that?”

“An interview.” I tell her honestly, because I’m proud of the time and effort I put into these things. “Most candidates don’t get hired because they don’t dress for the position.”

The corner of the girl’s mouth turns up. I get the sense that she’s laughing at me, but I can’t be certain. “And what position is that?”

I frown. This is the most anyone has ever talked to me on the subway, and it’s a little disorientating. “Sales and marketing director.”

“Sales and marketing.” She repeats, smiling to herself but nodding seriously. “How very interesting.”

Then there is nothing but the sound of the train, wheeling miserably down the tracks. The stranger fixes her earbuds and looks down at her combat boots, and I’m grateful to return to the comfortable, ignorant silence I’ve grown to love about New York’s public transit. Looking out the window, I’m met with a blur of black and brown. I really hope I get this job. The flyer requested a minimum of five years experience, but I only have a couple months under my belt. If my mother were here, she would tell me I’m reaching, that I should take a second to appreciate what’s right in front of me. Yes, I just lost my job, but look at the inexplicable Dungeons & Dragons campaign that took its place. I should be out there wielding swords and casting spells, not fretting over my visa and applying for the first familiar position I see.

I glance at the dark-haired stranger sitting across from me, who’s wearing a set of what I would call apocalypse leathers and softly bobbing her head to her music. A hunting knife is strapped to her outer thigh, the hilt reflecting the glare of the emergency lights. She looks like she took this medieval phenomenon to heart, like someone my mother would love. But if I listened to my mother, I would have never made it to New York in the first place. And there’s no way in hell I’m going home to clean up that pigsty of a trailer, live off instant noodles, and force my mother to get out of bed and go to work in the morning. No, I finally got away from that life. I took control and built something to be proud of.

A sharp pain pierces the base of my ankle and I yelp, kicking my feet out in front of me. Dangling from my lavender Nordstrom heels is a scaly creature roughly the size of a small puppy. It has the head of a snake and the arching wings of a bat. Its feet are pronged and chicken-like, creating long scratches on the seat in front of me as it tries to claw its way up my leg. “Ew, ew,” I breathe, poking the thing in the eye with the heel of my other shoe. The tiny dragon releases its bite and skitters across the train car. The moment it approaches the stranger, she calmly takes out her earbuds and stands, booting it into the priority seating section. A hundred yellow eyes suddenly peer out from beneath the benches, blinking away the darkness.

“Wyverns.” The stranger says matter-of-factly. “Think of them as the city’s new rats.” Then she glances at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I think I’m going to spend the rest of my commute in a different car. Care to join?”

The wyverns start hissing and making low gurgling noises that sound a lot like water boiling. I jump out of my seat and grab my new friend’s hand. “Sounds good to me,” I tell her, and we run to the back of the car. She throws open the door and I’m momentarily blinded by a gust of golden light. The train hurtles out of the tunnel, knocking me off balance and forcing me to use the girl’s arm for support. She steps away from me, becoming a vacant space which I shy away from, my eyes squeezed shut. The light is so bright, it’s making my eyelids glow a vibrant red. I have a death grip on the doorframe that’s only growing tighter as the wind ricochets around me, ravaging my skin and whipping my hair all over my face. When I finally open my eyes, the girl has leapt from one train car to the other. She’s staring sideways at me, smiling with half her mouth. The tracks rush beneath us, a blur of metal and asphalt. Part of me wonders if this is legal, and I remind myself not to look down.

“Are you coming?” The girl asks, holding her hand out across the chasm. I steady myself as the train billows over the Hudson river, casting long shadows over the decaying highways, making the rusty infrastructure shake. For the first time, I realize the absurdity of the job I’m applying for. I mean, sales and marketing for dragon hunters? How will I even advertise to consumers when the internet winked out of existence, essentially trapping New York in a bubble? The arrival of the Valley destroyed the very definition of business. How am I supposed to make a name for myself in this apocalyptic fire-breathing cesspool of a city?

Suddenly, the girl has a firm grasp on my wrist and is pulling me toward her, off the safety of the platform. “Jump!” She cries, and then there is nothing but air beneath my feet. The sunset crouches behind the Hudson river, creating a glittery, golden crescendo across the water. Osprey-sized serpents are flying overhead at the same speed as the train. I breathe in the flowering scent of dogwood and it once again sends me back in time, transporting me to the small town I grew up in, the mountains and trails I used to hike before I set my mind on New York. I land on the opposite platform with an awkward thud and stumble into the girl. Staring at her, I’m reminded of the homeless man who stood in the middle of Broadway, laughing like a child at the water that splashed around his knees.

My grip tightens on the flyer. If I’m going to be marketing to dragon hunters, I’ll probably be pitching weapon ideas. Some thoughts already come to mind: electric nets made to bite into dragon flesh, fiery catapults, shotguns that trace fast moving targets in the air. There will be military-grade artillery for dragon hunting corporations, as well as everyday self-defence mechanisms for normal people walking the streets. Eventually I'll have my own company with an emphasis on design, having mastered the delicate balance of beauty and effectiveness. Our guns will be smooth and sleek, desired in every home, collected and put on display. This city will tremble in the palm of my hand, and my name will be known across the boroughs, will rise like the sun on all those early mornings I shuffled to my classes without coffee or breakfast to tide me over: unforgivingly. But this isn’t something I can do on my own. If I learned anything from my contemporary management courses, I’ll need a team.

The girl questioningly touches my arm, and I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the tracks for several minutes. I take in the sight of her as she arches her brow at me.

“How do you feel about dragon hunting?” I ask, glancing at the knife not so discreetly hidden at her hip.

“Badass.” She says, flipping her hair over her shoulders.

I pass the flyer into her surprisingly smooth hands. As her gaze rapidly descends its narrow handwriting, I sigh, closing my eyes against the warmth of the sunset.

There weren’t always dragons in New York, and I’m going to make them wish they never came.