The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(115)
I watch colorful images flash randomly across the screen, the Feed now lacking what little curation it ever had. It will veer and roll like a plane with a dead pilot until the station someday loses power.
“We’ve been quiet,” Mr. Atvist says. “We’ve been discreet while we laid our foundation, and that’s good. Soft power has its place. But if we’re going to rebuild this country the way it ought to be, we’re going to have to get hard. Are you ready for that?”
I watch the TV. I don’t answer.
“I asked if you’re ready to get hard, kid. Wake up that secretary of yours if you need a fluffer.”
“What are you planning?” I’m startled by how weakly it comes out. A small, trembling sound that reminds me of a little boy hiding on a rooftop. I tell myself it’s just late. I’m just tired. Exhausted and rubbed raw by a punishing regimen of indulgence. Two company women snore in my bed, the stench of smoke and body fluids mingling into rancid perfume. One of them is my assistant. The other I don’t recognize. They are painkillers that I take to ease my doubt. They affirm my choices with the prize of their bodies, writhing in my big bed in my big apartment where I get to watch the end of America in utmost safety and comfort. This is the top, is it not? How can my path be wrong if it led me to the top?
“Be in the conference room in an hour,” Atvist says. “We’ll raise a toast to America and discuss how to cook its carcass.”
The walkie feels heavy in my hand. I drop it and stare at the flickering madness on the TV. I feel a strange urge to cry, but I strangle it.
“You okay?”
My assistant is sitting at the edge of the bed, watching me.
I get up and step into my slacks, throw on my silver shirt.
“Are you sure you want to go?”
“Have to.”
“I thought you always do what you want.”
I shoot her a dangerous look and she goes quiet. I button my shirt and reach for my red tie.
Outside, ninety floors below my huge windows, the city writhes in its fever, the streets crackling with panic, gunshots and fires. But all I see is Freedom Tower gleaming in the moonlight. Sinopec Tower blinking down at me in mockery.
There are buildings taller than ours. This is not the top.
? ? ?
In the musty shadows of my basement, a madman is muttering the story of his life. He slumps in a corner, his once expensive clothes filthy and tattered, his red tie darkened to brown, a discarded wretch telling tales of improbable glory. This is where I want him. Chained to the floor, starved and impotent. I won’t kill him. I won’t even silence him. I will keep him here and listen until I know all his secrets, all his strengths and weaknesses, and he will never control me again.
I open my eyes to the pale light of my latest prison. Julie sleeps next to me but not close, curled into a ball with a buffer of cool air between us. Our lives have become so burdened with fear, our love feels like a luxury we can’t afford. Even here in this cell with nothing to do but wait, we keep pushing it away. But I refuse to believe it’s gone. I catch it gleaming in the cracks between moments. A quick look. A kiss in a crashing plane. Somehow, in the midst of all this fire and death, we will find it again.
The elevator dings. Julie’s eyes snap open. She sees me watching her and appears puzzled by the faint smile on my face, but as always, there isn’t time to share my thoughts with her. The elevator opens and I don’t need to look away from her face to know who has stepped out. The panic in her eyes tells me everything.
“We’ll be okay,” I tell her, and I’m shocked by how level my voice is. I am not Dead anymore; I breathe and bleed and feel pain, but for some reason, I’m not afraid. I sidle close to her and touch her arm. “We’re stronger now. They don’t know how to hurt us.”
She looks at me and presses her lips together, stopping their tremble. She nods, and this simple gesture floods me with hope.
The cell door opens and we stand up to face them.
“Hello!” Yellow Tie chirps.
WE
THE BOY IS SITTING at a desk. He has been told the desk is a privilege reserved for high-potential individuals. It is the first time in either of his lives that someone has told him he has potential, but it fails to inspire him. He is in a room full of high-potential individuals, diverse in age, sex, and appearance, but all with a certain sameness. Whatever their natural skin tone, it has faded. Whatever their natural eye color, it has changed—most to gray, but a few with flecks of gold. It occurs to the boy that potential is a vague word. Poison has potential to kill. Flesh has potential to rot.
All of these high-potential individuals sit at desks like the boy’s, absorbing a bewildering array of inputs. Screens fill every corner, all playing different programs—sports, films, old news broadcasts with constant commercial breaks—and all at full volume, fighting for dominance with the pop song on the PA speakers, which is just the sound of women’s orgasms set to a thumping beat.
In the midst of this, two men stand at the front of the room, delivering what might be lectures of some kind, though the boy can pick out only a few snatches in the whirlwind of noise. Something about security from one of them, something about liberty from the other.
Most of the people in this room glance wildly from screen to screen, speaker to speaker. A few stare straight ahead as drool pools on their parted lips. Two or three, like the boy, look around with lucidity in their eyes, frowning in concentration as they try to understand this strange assault. One of these suddenly screams and flings out her hand, knocking over her IV stand. The tube pops out of the bag. The syrupy pink cocktail squirts out onto the floor, and a man in a lab coat rushes to reconnect it.