Gods of Anthem (42 page)

My legs are useless, so when I finally reach a window, it’s a struggle to hoist myself up over the ledge. I’m alone now, with nothing but snapping jaws trying to find anything still squirming. I need cover.

A hand grabs mine, and I lift my gun, but it’s only Cory, pale but unharmed, and he pulls me through the rest of the way by my shirt.

I try to ask if he’s been hiding the whole time, but I can’t hear any sound. Cory sits me down in a corner before moving back to the window to headhunt for zombies.

Everything’s in a haze; I feel like a flickering lamp. One minute he’s there at the window, the next, he’s over me shaking his head. His mouth moves, and he gestures emphatically, but I’m unable to hear.

The room spins. When it stops, Cory’s clean and well-dressed, standing at a dining room table.

“I thought this was better than where we were,” he says.

I look down to see I’m dressed in a suit and tie, too. “Not this again! Send me back!’

“I will. Chill out. This was the only way to communicate with you, since you can’t hear.”

Like I trust this bastard. “Send. Me. Back.”

And with a sigh, he does.

Again he tries to say something to me, but I’m fighting to stay conscious. Cory points at the window, then at me, trying to convey probably something very important.

And then we’re back at the dining room table. “Would you just listen!” he yells.

Vero appears this time.

“What’s going on?” she asks, looking down at her dress in surprise and disgust. “Where are we?”

I ball my hands into fists, ignoring how good it feels to have control of my body again. “Cory’s head,” I tell her.

Cory makes a frustrated sound. “Your boyfriend’s hurt.”

She looks at me, then at Cory in question. “What?”

“Take this as an SOS,” he says, and we return to the present.

Smoke burns my throat. The building’s caught fire while we were in the fake universe.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” Cory’s lips are easily read this time.

“Go,” I say, only feeling the words. “Just go.”

He looks at me in question.

“Go!” I try to yell.

He shrugs, then jumps through the window, disappearing into the smoke.

Slumping against the wall, I try to look at the bright side. At least I won’t be eaten. No, I’ll burn to death long before that. At this, a laugh rumbles in my chest. A Tommy Ripley-Hatter barbecue.

My eyes drift shut.

As a child,
I’d only had one other fear besides trains: The Nutcracker. Or, more accurately, the giant Mouse King in all of his rat-like glory. He left me with nightmares for weeks after watching any rendition of the favorite seasonal production. And since my mother so often danced as Clara, I’d had to watch it nearly fifty times per Christmas. That is, until she was too old to effectively pull off the role, or so she said.

Each opening night, I’d develop an anxiety fever from waiting for when
he
would appear. Even though I’d seen the Mouse King plenty of times without his costume on, the role was so well played and terrifyingly passionate, it was frightening. He’d get up on that stage, drawing me in until my heart beat so fast and my palms had gotten so sweaty.

At that age, it was easy to picture the evil mouse eating me in my bed.

Upon seeing Reginald Cromwell, leader of the Authority, I’m reminded of the Mouse King. Firstly, because he resembles some sort of rodent. Secondly, because he wears the leadership role like a cloak upon his shoulders.

Karma, on the other hand, is a vision of pure plastic, richly dressed and blinking at me like I’m some dinner guest and not a revolutionary gripped tightly by guards at each arm. That’s what they’d called me on the way over: “Liza, the revolutionary.” I didn’t know whether to deny it or embrace it.

Karma’s depiction at the wall must be of an older version, before she’d undergone work. Now, she’s poised without moving, or even seeming to breathe.

Reginald strokes his non-augmented mustache. There’s a vibe coming from him, tendrils of anticipation, which makes me search Jeremy—his son—for answers.

None are given.

Instead, we’re put back into separate vehicles and driven even farther north. Through the area where the explosions had removed half of Anthem, it seems; the heart of the big bang. Our car has to veer around the devastation that’s taken out entire roads.

Farther on, there’s less of anything except the wall on this side. But before it sits a sprawling mansion that’s breathtaking.

Amid the bright green grass and the red roses stand white marble pillars upon which a third floor balcony enables visitors to gaze at the city from the home’s strategically placed hill.

This lavish, colorful setting faces Ash City in contrast, its effervescence saturating.

The idea that the Cromwells live here in opulence after leaving the bloody streets of downtown is disturbing. Journee’s face comes to mind. His handsome features were so still when I’d pulled him from the water, making him a stranger for the lack of humorous, cocky expressions I’d come to know him for.

Breathing is a chore with the thought of him being gone.

We’re
let out of the car, and Jeremy remains separated from me. I’m given my own room, albeit with a guard outside. And even though it’s nearly morning, I’m told to wash for dinner.

No one cares to answer any of my questions.

The door’s promptly closed and locked in my face.

Now, with plush red carpet beneath my feet, it’s a far walk from one side of the empty room to the other. Oversized furniture, ornately carved wood … it all makes me feel so small. My hands drift over the silk bedspread, the velvet curtains, and the silver vanity; it’s like a dream, a vision born out of blood and smoke. An ethereal palace built upon the backs of a forgotten humanity.

That such things have made it through to the end of the world is astounding.

Giving in, I shower, secretly hating myself for enjoying the hot water on my skin. Such luxuries make my emotions erratic. Tears would offer me release from the threat of the day, the sadness, the fear, and the adrenaline that would wear off to a dullness. Instead, I hold them in, standing limp beneath the spray, clinging to relief.

“Live to fight another day” may seem brave, but I’m a coward. I’m just happy to be alive. The thought is selfish, but brief. I only relax for a moment before everything is rushing back: Nate, and the twins … all fighting, or worse, while I’m busy sudsing my hair. But these images are quickly banished. To continue will make me crumble. I’m a glass house right now, and there are cracks already.

The foggy mirror spares me from having to look myself in the eye as I dry off with pristine, ornate towels.

My steps slow upon entering the bedroom again. As if by magic, dresses have appeared on the bed. Both of them ballroom gowns and prettier than anything I’ve ever worn in my life.

One is red, the other white.

They nauseate me further.

They do because they are so absolutely gorgeous. And because they mean such terrible things.

Maybe they’ll poison us at dinner.

Anything’s better than these empty gestures of goodwill.

A
guard follows me silently to the dining room, where the Cromwells have left me a seat at the end of the table. Jeremy’s there, staring at his plate, suit pressed and hair slicked back.

He’s so different now. Already they’ve sucked the life out of him, and it’s barely been a week since I’ve last seen him.

My seat is next to a girl whom I can only assume is his sister. Not quite as “worked on” yet as the mother, but certainly some upgrades. Hard not to notice the large chest that keeps her from sitting too close to the
hors d’oeuvres
.

Karma comes to life in that jerky, animated way, mouth appearing to move a fraction behind her words. “Liza, aren’t you darling in Carolina’s dress.”

Carolina claps, and things jiggle unseemly before she leans forward, reaching out a pale hand to touch mine. My obvious grimace and recoil as though she were a snake makes her straighten in indignation.

“Oh,” she says prettily.

Some would say “I’m sorry” out of pure manners, but anger wires my jaw shut. These people are evil. They can try to hide it under whatever mechanics they choose to invest in, but I’m no fool.