The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(15)

“Blessed are the deaf,” Rosso mutters to no one but himself, “for the loud shall inherit the earth.”

I can hear a shift in the room’s acoustics as Bob cranks the mics, trying to pick up Rosso’s dwindling volume. Being the pro that he is, he’s raising the room mics instead of the stage, and the small sounds of the crowd become audible: creaking chairs, grinding teeth, heavy breaths. I brace myself to be deafened when Balt inevitably starts shouting again, but just as he’s sucking in a breath to do so, a curious sound appears in the background.

Three musical tones, followed by a warm, reassuring male voice.

“Thank you for calling the United States. If you or your township is currently under attack, please hang up and contact your local militia.”

“The fuck is that?” Balt says, and his voice booms so loud even he cringes. Feedback begins to build in the speakers: a low, threatening hum.

“Shut it off, Bob,” Rosso says. Bob mutes the PA and the room goes quiet.

“Please listen to the following options . . .”

It’s coming from the lobby. Rosso hops off the stage and works his way through the crowd, shoving Balt aside with surprising strength. I go around the stage to join Julie and Nora—their faces are as nonplussed as everyone’s—and we follow Rosso into the lobby.

“To request military assistance, press one. To report military abuse, press two.”

On the help desk in the corner of the lobby, on an old black office phone, the line labeled “Goldman” is blinking red. The voice emanates from the phone’s speaker, backed by a faint trickle of music: calming synthesizer chords with occasional glimmers of sax.

“To report a new hive formation, press three. To report any information on a possible cause or cure, please hang up and call the National Plague ‘Rotline’ at 1-803-768-5463.”

The recording hisses and hums and wavers its pitch like a reel of tape that’s been looping for decades. Rosso looks bemused, as if this is some inscrutable prank. “Who called Fed 800?” he asks no one in particular.

“To report threats to or from your regional government, press four. If your state is attempting secession and you wish to request exemption from retributive strikes, press five.”

“I called Goldman again a few hours ago,” Kenerly says. “The line was still dead but I left it on auto-dial just in case.”

“How did their HQ line get patched into Fed 800 . . . ?”

“For infection avoidance tips, press six. To speak to a live representative, press seven. And if you would simply like to be calmed, press eight to be redirected to the LOTUS Feed.”

The voice goes quiet, leaving only the background music, which has transitioned into a gentle Latin conga rhythm. Rosso looks at Kenerly, shrugs, and presses seven.

“Due to high national crisis levels and drastically reduced staff, we are experiencing longer than usual wait times. The estimated wait to speak to a representative is—three hundred sixty-five days. We are sorry for the delay. We are sorry.”

A smooth Spanish guitar riff noodles over fretless bass.

“Don’t know what I was expecting,” Rosso says. He reaches out to end the call.

There’s a buzzing noise, then a sharp click.

“Hello?”

Rosso’s hand freezes over the button. “Ah . . . hello?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lawrence Rosso at Citi Stadium. Who are . . . who am I speaking to?”

A pause.

“This line isn’t set up yet. I can’t answer questions.”

Rosso glances at Kenerly, then back at the phone. “Is this Goldman Dome headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“May I speak to General Cinza?”

Another pause.

“Goldman Dome is under new management. Mr. Cinza is no longer with us.”

“What do you mean ‘new management’?”

“This line isn’t set up yet. I can’t answer questions. Pitchmen will be arriving at your enclave in one hour to introduce our organization.”

“What is your—”

“The pitchmen will introduce our organization. They’ll arrive in one hour. Thank you for calling the Axiom Group.”

A click. The phone’s red light goes dark.

Much of the crowd has filtered in from the meeting hall, but despite being packed tight with people, the lobby is completely silent. Rosso’s eyes are on the phone but far away. I look at Julie and find a similar distance in her expression. Most of the faces in the room display simple confusion and unease—darting eyes, wringing hands, questions mumbled to the nearest neighbor—but every fourth or fifth person wears this strange, dreamy stare, like someone plunged into deep childhood reverie.

“Why do I know that name . . . ,” Julie says, barely a whisper, and the undertones in her voice tell me this is not the pleasant kind of recollection, not the taste of a favorite candy or the first notes of a lullaby but the other kind. The kind that therapists dig out with special dolls.

And do I feel it? This uneasy nostalgia? I do not. I feel nothing. A cottony white nothing so perfect it’s suspicious, like a plastered-over door with a sign that says NOT A DOOR. A whole new level of numbness.

“Sounds like a fuckin’ invasion to me,” Balt grunts, unsurprisingly immune to the spell of introspection. “I say we meet ’em at the gate with every gun we’ve got.”