The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(18)

“Sir,” he says to Rosso, “may I ask why he’s here?”

Rosso shades his eyes and peers into the distant streets. “Who are you referring to?”

Kenerly jerks his chin toward me.

“This isn’t a stealth op, Major; non-verbals aren’t necessary. I believe you’re looking for a letter. Oscar? Papa? Quebec . . . ?”

Kenerly’s jaw flexes. “May I ask why R is here, sir.”

I expect Rosso to brush him off with another vague “I have a feeling,” but instead, without taking his eyes off the city, he says, “R is here because he’s a refugee from a world we don’t understand, and I want his opinion of our guests.”

“What would a zombie know about the Axiom Group, sir?”

Rosso finally turns around, and there’s a tightly controlled anger in his face. “Axiom was wiped out in the Borough Conflicts and their headquarters and all their executives were buried in the Eight Six. John and I went back and confirmed it ourselves, and there’s a photo in my office of us standing by the lake where their little kingdom used to be.”

As he speaks, I feel a queasy sensation in my gut. An infrasound hum rolling up from the basement, rumbling through cracks in the plaster that’s slathered over my mind, that suspiciously door-shaped blankness.

“Axiom is dead,” Rosso says. “It’s been dead for nearly a decade. And when dead things start moving again, I get superstitious. So indulge me.”

He gives me a look as if to confirm I’m keeping up with him, and it pulls me back. I blink a few times and give him a nod, though I’m not sure what it signifies. Am I agreeing to something? I wish I could read the contracts I sign.

“Here they come,” one of the guards says, and I am suddenly not the center of attention anymore. Main Street cuts a long, straight line through the center of Post, all the way to the grassy hills outside the city, and there, near the road’s vanishing point, a dark shape is growing larger.

“Where are they coming from?” Kenerly wonders aloud. “Goldman’s the other way.”

We watch the shape emerge from the orange haze of the setting sun, slowly resolving into a recognizable form. A single, nondescript SUV, beige paint, no markings. The kind of anonymous vehicle suitable for a low-end limo service. The soldiers hold their rifles casually, posed in nonaggressive stances, but I see their fingers flexing on the grips. What are they to make of an envoy like this?

The SUV rolls up to the gate and parks neatly within the lines of a parking spot, one of hundreds in the mostly empty lot. The front doors open. The representatives of the so-called Axiom Group, its so-called “pitchmen,” emerge from the vehicle.

I feel the infrasound burbling under my stomach as they approach. The door that isn’t a door rattles faintly.

The pitchmen have a uniform. They wear black slacks. Gray shirts. Silk ties in blue, yellow, black. They wear wide grins around porcelain-white teeth.

“Hello!” the one in the blue tie says in a rich, authoritative baritone. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us.”

“Absolutely . . . ,” Rosso replies, sounding far from absolute.

“We represent the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” the one in the yellow tie says, and apparently their organization doesn’t care for gender-neutral titles because this pitchman is a pitchwoman. Her brown hair is tied into a neat ponytail, and her makeup is the heaviest I’ve ever seen on a post-apocalyptic female: bright red lipstick and a thick coat of foundation that gives her skin the matte dullness of a rubber glove. “The Axiom Group offers tried-and-true solutions to new problems.” Her tone is so genial it seems about to overflow into laughter. “May we come inside and discuss what Axiom can do for your enclave?”

“It was my understanding that Axiom collapsed eight years ago,” Rosso says, keeping his voice and expression flat. “Their forces were wiped out in the Borough Conflicts and what was left of them was buried in the Eight Six quake.”

“It’s true, that was an unprofitable year,” Blue Tie says with a note of somber reflection. “We suffered severe losses and did come close to closure.”

“Fortunately,” Yellow Tie chirps, “Axiom’s foundations are deep and unshakable. After a brief hiatus and minor restructure, we are back in business and better than ever. May we come inside and discuss our services?”

“What sort of services are we discussing?” Rosso says.

“As you know, Goldman Dome was in the process of a merger with Citi Stadium when Axiom assumed management. We would like to continue that process.”

Rosso and Kenerly exchange a glance. I don’t know what they were expecting from this encounter, but I doubt it was anything this . . . cheery.

“May we come inside to discuss our services?” Yellow Tie repeats.

Rosso looks at me, but all I can offer is an uneasy stare. “We’re always open to discussion,” he says.

“Wonderful,” Yellow Tie says.

The rear doors of the SUV open, and two more men emerge.

“And who are they?” Rosso says, stiffening.

“Our assistants,” Blue Tie says, as if surprised by the question. “They will assist with the merger process.”

They are pale, doughy little men in white short-sleeve shirts and black slacks. They could be employees of an office supply store. One carries a thick notebook, the other a small metal briefcase, which he hands to Black Tie.