The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(109)
The agent glances between him and Gael. He makes another mark on his board. “We’ll find you something. Always new openings in Salvage.”
Gael and Gebre exchange a glance.
“And what about the boy here, is he—”
The agent drops his clipboard.
The boy is staring hard at the vans as they wait in front of a service gate. His sunglasses are in his hand. His impossible eyes are wide, trying to drill through the vans’ tinted glass and see the people inside, because somewhere in today’s haul of agitators and underperformers, there is a signal, a beacon, like someone is trying to tell him something.
And are we trying to tell him something? Are we speaking to him now? A book speaks whenever someone reads it, and only its reader knows what it has said.
A hand clamps onto the boy’s shoulder.
“I’ve got another uncategorized,” the agent says into his walkie. “Juvenile. Severe iris gilding. Sending him your way.”
“Let go of him!” Gael shouts.
“He’s infected,” the agent says. “He’ll be taken to our facilities for care.”
Three guards emerge from the customs booth and push Gael and Gebre aside.
“Please don’t do this,” Gebre says. “He’s not Dead.”
“Uncategorized are being studied for a new plague management program,” the agent says. “Your boy’s going to help make the world safe again.”
The boy listens to his guardians’ voices. They rise steadily, from imploring to demanding to desperate as grim-faced men lead him beyond the fence. The last thing he hears sounds like a promise:
“We’ll find you! We won’t leave you with them!”
What is the ratio, he wonders? Three bad people are dragging him away from two good people; is there more bad than good? Is there any consensus on humanity?
He catches one last glimpse of the vans. He sees the pitted surface of the window glass, gnarled silica bubbles and dust particles like mountains. But his vision crashes against the darkness inside. He sees a familiar silhouette, a shadow against a shadow and a dim memory of warmth. Then three bad people haul him away.
I
THE STAIN.
There is a new stain in my cell.
My cellmate—he just sneered when I asked his name, like I wasn’t worthy of even that front-porch intimacy—has contributed more than a few stains during his tenancy. I’ve watched him piss through the bars at guards in the hall. I’ve watched him vomit onto the floor after drinking some rotten concoction of fruit and cleaning products. I’ve tried to avoid watching him when he hunches in his bunk, grunting and thrusting to the thought of whatever blimp-breasted aberration might tickle his brain stem.
He hasn’t always used his own fluids, though. Sometimes he’s used mine. He has spattered my blood with fists and feet, and occasionally, when he’s caught me on a bad day, when my head is full of fading memories and the creeping realization that I will not get to experience the life we’re all afforded, that I will miss all the milestones and die a half-formed thing—on those days, he has smeared my tears into the concrete, mixing them with my blood.
My cellmate has painted many stains, but today’s is his masterpiece. This one obliterates his earlier efforts. It covers them completely as it spreads across the floor.
Prison security becomes looser when the world outside is collapsing. It becomes possible to acquire pencils, for example, for drawing and journaling and other therapeutic expressions.
The cellblock door bangs open and boots march toward me. The camera in the corner stares down at my cellmate’s prone form. I can think of nothing more absurd than the fact that I’ll be be punished for this, here in this place whose sole purpose is to remove dangerous men from society. Well, I have removed one. Let God punish me for preempting his plan, but here on Earth I should be praised for my pragmatism.
The boots stop in front of my cell. My grandfather watches the blood pool around my bare feet. He smiles.
“I think you’re ready.”
He nods to the two men at his sides—not prison guards; I don’t recognize their militaristic black uniforms—and they leave us. He leans close to the bars.
“What do you think, R—? Do you think you’re ready?”
I grab his shirt and pull his face against the bars hard enough to bruise his papery skin. “Three years,” I snarl. “You left me here for three years.”
He is grimacing and chuckling like he’s wrestling with a toddler. “Easy, kid! Take it easy on the old man.”
I throw him backward and glower at him while he adjusts his collar.
“What was it you said last time I was here? That you were learning a lot? Well, you had more to learn. And now I think you’ve learned it.”
My eyes drift around the prison. Most of the cells are empty now. The law machine is rusty and missing a thousand cogs, and no one has time to repair it. It won’t be long before the meals stop coming.
“Why did you kill that man, R—?”
I don’t answer.
“You went to great lengths to minimize casualties in your fires. ‘Life belongs to God,’ you said. So why did you kill that man?”
“He’d done terrible things,” I mumble. “He deserved to die.”