The Burning World Page 7

  Rosso closes his mouth. The pitchmen’s warm river of pleasantries makes it easy to forget the helicopters, the truck convoys, and the phrase “under new management.” But with that small shift in Blue Tie’s demeanor, everyone suddenly recalls the shape of the situation.

  “Due to the sensitive nature of the materials,” Yellow Tie says in a gentle tone of deep apology, “we are unable to deliver our presentation in a public setting at this time. If you can take us to a private, restricted location”—her smile returns like the sun breaking through clouds—“we would be delighted to share our development plans for your enclave and the entire Cascadia region.”

  Rosso glances at Kenerly. Kenerly’s face glistens with sweat and his fingers are tight on his rifle, but it’s just three lunatics in colorful ties. Whatever the real threat might be, it’s waiting in the shadows behind them.

  Kenerly nods.

  “We’ll take you to our command office,” Rosso says, then hesitates. “But just you three. Your ‘assistants’ wait outside.”

  “Our assistants wait outside,” Yellow Tie agrees, a little too readily.

  The assistants turn and exit through the gate, unfazed by their abrupt dismissal. Balt watches them go and frowns, glances at Yellow Tie, then at Rosso. “I’ll go keep an eye on them,” he says with the exaggerated volume of a bad stage actor as he follows the men outside.

  But Rosso isn’t listening to Balt. He is staring at the pitchmen with a grim intensity, as if playing out unpleasant scenarios in his head. Without another word, he walks toward the nearest passageway and the pitchmen follow close on his heels. The gloom of the tunnel gives way to daylight, but although the sky is a dim purple and the air has cooled, I feel a dampness in my palms.

  I have finally learned to sweat.

  • • •

  I trail behind with the soldiers, watching the pitchmen’s feet grind into the sticky asphalt, heavy black boots incongruous with their business attire. Ahead, Rosso and Kenerly walk in grim silence, leading these strange intruders into the heart of the stadium, and though they’re unarmed, it has the feel of a march at gunpoint to a secluded spot in the woods. Pick up that shovel. Start digging.

  Yet what I feel isn’t fear. It’s loss. Nostalgia for something I can’t quite name. My mind drifts out of this fraught negotiation and into the streets and buildings around me. I hate this city. I wish we didn’t need it. But it’s filled with people I love and covered in their fingerprints. I think of Julie’s old bedroom, the multicolored walls and the paintings, her own raw splashes of emotion hanging alongside Picasso and Dalí’s mastery of form. I think of Nora in her foster home, older than some of the parents but refusing to take an apartment of her own, staying behind to mother three floors of frightened orphans whose faces she looks into like mirrors. I think of Rosso’s house, Ella and the younger women talking in the kitchen while Lawrence sits by the fire and reads the brittle pages of some ancient text, pulling more knowledge into his already vast inner library.

  I think of all this, and I imagine it razed. Tank treads grinding over paintings and books. Children fleeing through bent steel and smoldering plywood. And me standing in the center of town, screaming everyone’s names through clouds of ashes.

  An obsolete reflex twitches in my hand; I reach into my pocket for a phone that isn’t there and wouldn’t work if it were. Satellites drift dead in space. Earth’s atmosphere is silent, wrapped in a fog of interference so thick even carrier pigeons get lost in it. With most of the old landlines long since cut, humanity is back to the Bronze Age: isolated tribes peering into a world of shadows.

  But I need to talk to Julie. I need to hear her voice and know that she’s still real, not just the pleasant prelude to a nightmare.

  “Can I borrow your walkie?” I whisper to the soldier next to me.

  He looks startled. “Why?”

  “I need . . . to call my girlfriend.”

  He hesitates, processing this absurdity, then hands me his walkie. These old-fashioned devices have become a precious commodity, and Julie usually carries the one we share between us. I’ve rarely had anything urgent to communicate as I pass my days with housework and the vegetable garden, forcing conversations with our taciturn neighbors, taking swings at an invisible enemy and just waiting for something to happen. Well . . . something is happening.

  I dial in Julie’s frequency and press the talk button. I wince at the squeal of static, but I hold the device close to my face and murmur, “Julie?”

  I hear bursts of noise that have the rhythm of words, but their sibilance and inflection are scrambled, draining them of meaning.

  “Can you hear me?”

  More noise. Another jamming surge. Even a few blocks apart, we are mumbling to each other from distant planets.

  I hand the walkie back to the soldier and march on with a deepened sense of doom.

  “Your enclave’s growth is impressive,” Yellow Tie tells Rosso, her eyes inventorying each building. “It will be a valued member of the Axiom family should you decide to join us.”

  “May I ask,” Rosso asks, “just hypothetically, what our relationship with Goldman Dome would be if we decided not to join?”

  Blue Tie puts on his grave face. “We live in dangerous times. The world is full of rapists, serial killers, pedophiles, terrorists, and inhuman monsters who want to eat your family.”

  “The Axiom Group offers safety from everything,” Yellow Tie says.

  Black Tie says nothing.

  Rosso looks into their deeply sincere eyes. A bleak chuckle escapes him. “Well all right then. Thank you for clarifying.”

  I see the Armory door approaching at the end of Gun Street. Most of the doors inside the stadium are flimsy sheets of plywood that open with a rough shove. This one is nearly as severe as the main gate, a slab of steel wide enough for a Humvee to drive through but dwarfed by the expanse of concrete around it. It is the only interior door with a lock.

  Rosso inserts his key. Kenerly steps forward to help him open the door, but Rosso waves him off and heaves it open easily. I find some small comfort in this. His paunch is deceptive. His glasses are a disguise. He’s fought in more wars than most men can name, and under his wrinkled skin is a steel core. Perhaps he has a plan.

  The pitchmen follow him into the concrete corridors of the inner wall. This passage was probably intended for getting emergency vehicles onto the playing field back when people injured each other for recreation. Now it accommodates emergency vehicles of a different sort. Row upon row of trucks fill the echoing garage of the Armory, some military and some militarized: camouflaged Army Humvees parked alongside Hummer H3s with power sunroofs and heated seats. Vehicles once favored by athletes—men the world regarded as warriors—are now driven into battle by terrified teenagers preparing to die. These days, there is more than enough war to quench humanity’s thirst. We no longer have to simulate it.

  Beyond the garage is a large open chamber with rows of tall shelves accessible only by forklift. It resembles a construction supply warehouse, except the equipment on its shelves is for the opposite of construction. I have never been in the Armory before, and for a moment, I catch myself lost in lizard-brain gun lust. Racks of weaponry from pistols to shotguns to rocket launchers. Crates of grenades. Land mines. And an entire corner devoted to zombie-slaying gear: chainsaws for Fleshies, steel clubs for Boneys, and police riot armor for protection from both. The dried black slime caked onto these items brings back memories that quickly cool my arousal, but I remain impressed. I had no idea the stadium was this well equipped. It occurs to me that Rosso may have had a good reason for agreeing to a meeting here. Perhaps he wanted Axiom’s representatives to see that, like Rosso himself, this enclave is not as defenseless as it looks.

  “Well,” he says, spreading his hands, “here we are. Concrete walls. One entrance. Secure enough for you?”

  “Yes,” Yellow Tie says, but she makes no move toward the conference table in the corner. All three pitchme
n stand in the center of the room letting their eyes roam the racks and shelves. Blue Tie approaches an open crate and runs his finger along the American flag stamped onto the rockets. “This is US Army ordnance, which makes it at least thirteen years old. It is unstable and unsafe.”

  Rosso drops the lid back onto the crate and locks it. “Our bombs may be a little stale, but they get the job done. We’ve dealt with more than a few invaders in my time here, and most are surprised by how effective an Army-trained security force can be. Ask the UT-AZ Elders, if you can still find any.”

  “We recommend munitions by Gray River National,” Blue Tie continues as if he never paused, giving no sign that he registered Rosso’s not-so-veiled threat. “They were manufactured as recently as seven years ago and were designed to survive extended storage. As a member of the Axiom Group, you’ll have full access to our supply network.”

  Rosso’s face grows stiffer. “Are we here to discuss the shelf life of grenades? Or can you illuminate for us why the hell you’ve come here from wherever the hell you came from?”

  Yellow Tie smiles. “Of course. I’ll be happy to help you with that.”

  As if hearing some silent cue, Black Tie pops open his briefcase and holds it out to her. She takes the folders, and though the case is now empty, Black Tie doesn’t close it. He moves away from the group and sets it on the conference table, then remains standing next to it. I have not seen him make eye contact with anyone since getting out of his SUV. Not blind, but . . . drugged? Sleepwalking?

  Blue Tie locks his eyes on each soldier, then on me. It’s the first time he’s looked directly at me, and something in his gaze—the improbably intense blue of his irises, the faint smile that never leaves his face even when he’s delivering grim pronouncements—makes me feel worms wriggling in my spine.

  “I’m afraid we do need to ask all but executive personnel to leave at this time,” he says, still looking at me.

  “Now wait a damn minute,” Kenerly says.

  “Our presentation contains sensitive materials that are only appropriate for upper management,” Yellow Tie says.

  Rosso takes a small step toward her. “Listen, Ms. Representative of the Goldman Dome Branch of the Axiom Group. I’m already breaking policy for you by holding this meeting in secret. I see no reason why my officers and advisors shouldn’t hear whatever you have to say.”

  Blue Tie leans in close, lowering his already deep voice into a strangely intimate rumble that he has not used until now. “Our ideas require a certain broadness of perspective to be appreciated. We find that people who are not in positions of power tend to lack this perspective. They tend to fixate on details they find distasteful instead of considering the value of the proposal as a whole.”

  “Once you have agreed to our proposal,” Yellow Tie says, “you are welcome to share the information with your people in a form that they can appreciate.”

  “But I’m afraid at this time,” Blue Tie concludes, “we do need to ask all but executive personnel to leave.”

  The Armory is silent. The muffled sounds of Citi’s citizenry ooze through the walls like the murmurs of ghosts. Watching Rosso’s face, his jaw muscles flexing behind his skin, I feel my cautious confidence sloughing away. He may be stronger than he looks, he may be wiser than Grigio was, more open-minded, open-hearted, and open-eyed, but he has lost control of this situation, if it was ever possible to have it.

  “Major Kenerly,” he says without breaking away from Blue Tie’s stare, “you and your team can wait outside.”

  “Sir, this is—”

  “If our guests prefer to do business in secret, like criminals, we can indulge them for a moment.”

  “But sir . . .”

  Rosso looks at Kenerly, his eyes softening. “We pick our battles, Evan. We pick no battles, if possible.”

  Kenerly hesitates, then salutes and turns on his heel. The soldiers begin to file out but I find myself unable to move. A thought bounces around my skull, so certain and insistent, I’m not sure it’s mine.

  Don’t go. Don’t leave him here.

  But I have to.

  Don’t do it.

  The whisper is faintly familiar, but my head has hosted many different voices, and I’m no good with names.

  What am I supposed to do?

  Don’t leave him.

  “R,” Rosso says. “You can go.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Go, R.”

  “You can’t trust them.”

  “They’re not asking for trust,” Rosso says, “they’re asking for cooperation. And I’ll decide if we can cooperate once I’ve heard their pitch.”

  Three grins shower me with affability.

  Kenerly grabs me by my shoulder, but I don’t budge.

  “It’s just a meeting,” he says, addressing me directly for the first time I can recall. “Classified meetings used to be standard procedure.” He seems to be trying to convince himself as much as me. “Move.”

  He shoves me toward the exit and I start to walk, falling in line with the rest of the men. In the mirror of a Range Rover I see Rosso turn to face the pitchmen. I see Yellow Tie opening her folder. I hear the noxious warmth of her voice fading behind me. I walk past weapons and trucks and through the long, dark corridor, and the moon looks small when I emerge.

  Kenerly and his men take posts outside the Armory door, but I can’t wait here with these stoic pillars of protocol while my thoughts snarl and bark at each other. I lumber out into the empty streets. The city is asleep. I am alone under the buzzing lamps.

  I need a drink.

  I PASS ROSSO’S APARTMENT on my way to the Orchard. I can hear Julie’s and Nora’s voices through the window, the Living rhythms that once stirred me like music. I still marvel at how effortlessly they converse, how smoothly they transition between speakers with nearly no break in tempo, much less the long, awkward pauses I’m used to, but it no longer enraptures me like it did. I don’t stop to listen, I don’t close my eyes and sway. My mind is full of hornets.

  Although I’ve only been to the Orchard once, the route through the plywood labyrinth unfolds for me like I’m a regular, and I find myself standing in front of the pub’s thick oak door with little memory of how I got here. The yellow tree painted on it has flaked a little since I saw it last. The aluminum siding still bears two head-sized dents. A satisfied smile starts to creep onto my face, but I halt it. Why did I make those dents? What was I trying to achieve by cracking Balt’s head? Was I bringing justice to a man who preys on young girls, or was it just a brain-stem reaction to someone insulting my mate? The kind of primitive reflex that drives the lives of people exactly like Balt?

  While I stand there staring at the door, it swings open, smacking me between the eyes. I nearly tumble off the mezzanine.

  “Oh hey, sorry!” says the soldier who opened it, reaching out to steady me. “I didn’t see—” He recognizes me. He pulls his hand away like I’m a hot stove, straightens up, and leaves without further comment.

  I lean against the railing, rubbing my forehead. What do I expect to happen for me in a pub? Am I going to strike up a conversation with the fellows at the bar, talk about sports and cars, wave a beer in the air and lead everyone in rousing anthems of Us vs. Them? No. My ambitions are nothing so grand. I’m just here to make my brain stop working.

  Grigio’s prohibition is over, so the noise levels are now appropriately high, the atmosphere adequately raucous, and the amber nectar in the shot glasses is finally not apple juice. The pub is once again what it was built to be: a place for people to lower their drawbridges, to let others in and themselves out, to remember that life is more than the dimly lit tragedy of the daily grind. A warm, woozy light at the end of the day’s tunnel.

  This will, of course, not be my experience here. I slip through the crowd and find a stool at the far end of the bar, and I can feel a dozen eyes on my back. For a variety of reasons, some good, most bad, I am famous. I am the first of the Dead to challenge t
he plague, the one who triggered a change that’s still spreading. I am the disease that cured itself. And I am the monster that kidnapped General Grigio’s daughter and brainwashed her into falling in love with it. I am the demon that lured legions of skeletons to the stadium and caused the deaths of hundreds of soldiers, and that may have personally infected General Grigio and thrown his converting corpse off the stadium roof. I am the reason there are zombies roaming their streets and eyeing their children. I am the reason nothing makes sense.

  I avoid eye contact with everyone but the bartender. When he finally nods to me, I pull a bill from the small stack that Rosso gave me to help me “find my footing” and I set it on the bar.

  He looks at me uneasily. “Uh . . . what can I get you?”

  Another choice. Another opportunity to tell the world what kind of man I am. What do I wear? What kind of music do I listen to? What is my favorite drink?

  I shrug and mumble, “Alcohol.”

  He takes the hundred-dollar bill, which amounts to little more than a drink ticket in the stadium’s sad little private economy, and pours me a shot of whiskey. I dump it down my numb throat and stare at the bar top. The thick pine slab is completely covered in initials, doodles, and crass little dialogues. I peruse them like book spines, trying to imagine the stories behind the titles.

  It goes on and on, all down the bar. Love, hate, jokes, and the simple urge to be noticed, scrawled onto the wood year after year. The bulk of the inscriptions are on the top of the slab, bumping and overlapping like chatter at a party, but leaning down, I notice a few on the underside, as if never meant to be seen. Most are standard crush confessions: Jerry loves Jenny, Jenny loves Joey, Joey loves Jerry. But one entry catches my eye. It appears to have been carved and then promptly scratched out. I can just barely piece the letters together.

  I wince. Cold needles in my chest. I don’t know why this word stings; I pull my eyes away from it. They fall immediately on another line deep in the corner, scratched so faintly I almost miss it in the dim light.