UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(73)
Cam sighs. “Another one?”
“Would you prefer a press conference?”
“A sharp stick in the eye? No thank you!”
Cam has to admit that this new approach to the media is far better than press conferences and interviews. Roberta and her friends at Proactive Citizenry have cooked up a first-class advertising campaign. Billboards, print ads, digital, the works. All just photos, but even so, the ads are powerful.
The first round of ads will feature extreme close-ups of various parts of him. An eye; streaks of his multicolored hair; the starburst of flesh tones on his forehead. Each image will be accompanied by a pithy but enigmatic caption like, “The Time Has Come,” or “The Brilliant Tomorrow,” with no other clue as to what’s being advertised. Then, when public curiosity is piqued, they move to phase two, where the ads will feature his face, his body, and finally his whole self.
“We’ll create a mystique around you,” Roberta told him. “Play into their puerile fascination with the exotic until they’re champing at the bit to see more.”
“Striptease,” Cam had said.
“An elevated version of the same concept, I suppose,” Roberta admitted. “Once the ad campaign has rolled out, you will enter the public eye not as an oddity, but as a celebrity—and when you finally deign to do interviews, it will be on our terms.”
“My terms,” Cam corrected.
“Yes, of course. Your terms.”
Now, as Cam watches Risa through the one-way glass, he wonders what could possibly make her live by his terms too. Roberta has told him that he can have anything he desires, but what if the thing he desires most is Risa choosing to be with him of her own free will?
“Cam, please—come now, or we’ll be late.”
Cam stands, but before he leaves, he spares one last glance through the mirror at Risa, who has struggled onto her bed. Now she lies stretched out on her back, looking morosely at the ceiling. Then she closes her eyes.
The eternally sleeping princess, thinks Cam. But I shall free you from those poisoned brambles that surround your heart. And then you will have no choice but to love me.
30 ? Nelson
The Juvey-cop turned parts pirate makes a side trip to check one of his most successful traps. It is, however, in an unfortunate location. Unfortunate because it’s in a field that floods during storms. Nothing’s more irritating than a drowned AWOL. Except maybe disposing of one. He would rather continue searching for safe houses, with hopes of finding Connor Lassiter in one of them, but with major storms projected throughout the Midwest, checking this particular trap is worth the effort.
The trap is a piece of drainage pipe—a concrete cylinder five feet high and twenty feet long, lying in a fallow field that no one has farmed for years. Half a dozen such pipes rest in the field, surrounded by weeds—all abandoned when some public works project got canceled. It’s a nice hiding spot for runaway Unwinds—and in fact, one of the tunnel segments has a store of canned food right in the middle. The inside surface of that same cylinder, however, is painted with super-adhesive resin that sticks to clothes and flesh with such tenacity that anyone caught in the pipe might as well be nailed to the concrete. It tickles Nelson that he can catch Unwinds the way other people catch roaches.
Sure enough, there’s a kid stuck in the pipe. “Help me!” the boy shouts, kind of like the Fly caught in the spiderweb. “Help me, please!” The kid is scrawny and acne-ridden, with crooked teeth yellowed from chewing tobacco or just bad genetics. Either way, he’s not a prime specimen and won’t fetch much on the black market. His hair is plastered with glue, although Nelson suspects it doesn’t look much better clean.
“My God! What happened to you?” Nelson says, feigning concern.
“It’s like glue or somethin’! I can’t get out!”
“Okay,” Nelson says, “I think I can get you out of there. I have some adhesive remover in the van.” Actually he already has it with him. He pretends to jog away and jog back, then soaks a foul-smelling rag with the fluid, climbs into the tunnel, and begins dabbing the kid’s clothes and skin. Bit by bit the boy comes free from the adhesive.
“Thanks, mister,” says the kid. “Thanks a lot!” Nelson climbs out and waits at the mouth of the tunnel as the gooey, glue-covered kid slides himself out, just as nasty as a baby being born. Then, as he comes into the light of day, something finally occurs to this dim bulb. “Hey, wait a second . . . why would someone have that there adhesive remover stuff unless—”
Nelson doesn’t give him the chance to finish his thought. He grabs the boy, wrenches his arms behind his back, and tugs a plastic cable tie around his wrists. Then Nelson pushes him to the ground and pricks him with the DNA reader.
“William Yotts,” Nelson announces, and the kid groans. “AWOL for four days. Not too good at hiding, are ya?”
“You ain’t takin’ me in,” Yotts screams. “You ain’t takin’ me in!”
“You’re right, I’m not,” Nelson tells him. “You’re not going ‘in,’ you’re going ‘up.’ As in ‘up’ on the black market auction block. Ka-ching!”
The kid seems to go both pale and red in the face at the same time, making him all blotchy. Nelson surprises him with a hypodermic. Not tranqs, though. “Antibiotics,” he tells the boy. “Clean out whatever diseases crawled into your system while you were in that pipe. Even the ones that were there before. Most of them, anyway.”