Gods of Anthem (46 page)

This is goodbye.

For now….

Just for now.

Jeremy begins his climb down, then sucks his teeth like he’s forgotten something, and we play “Romeo and Juliet” in the window’s moonlight. I lean over to hear while he hangs onto the lattice, just as I’d dreamed as a girl a hundred times.

No more poetry, though. Instead, he asks for my hand.

With a frown, I reach out, and he writes on it.

“Don’t look at it until I’m gone.”

“Sure.”

I’m smitten. Scared. Terrified. And one hundred percent in love. My hiccups come barely a breath between; they’re silly, loud, embarrassing, and I’m completely out of control.

Apparently, the world’s ending didn’t merit this type of reaction, though most assuredly, the thought of the end of Jeremy does.

After he leaves, I wait as long as I can bear before I read my palm.

I love you

My heart melts, and so does my vision in tears of joy and pain.

He had to do it this way. Jeremy Writer, as he’s wont to do, he had to write it.

Attacks increased after
the night he came to my window, so they’ve made me stay in my room. Asking about Jeremy does no good. Demanding to see him goes unanswered. Finally, jumping on a guard, hoping my super strength visits to aid me only resulted in their threatening to drug me.

Apparently, my strength is normal unless I’m on the verge of death or something, because I’d girl-slapped his helmet, then bounced onto my butt like the tiny nothing that I am.

Explosions and gunfire are ever-present now. Even yells in the distance. They’re not too far away.

But I’m sick with worry and pacing my room, because I can think about only one thing at this moment: the boy I love—even more importantly, the boy who loves me—had climbed out through my window and disappeared into the void of Anthem’s upheaval.

And I’ve not seen him since.

My window stays open, but none of my sleepless nights are interrupted by him.

I’ve had plenty of time to think on it. What we share. Our love isn’t the sick and sticky splendor of teenage ardor, I’ve realized. It’s sharp, slicing—a knife to the heart, followed by the quick stitching of its two halves back together again.

I want to live for this boy.

I want to kill for this boy.

Thus, the insanity perpetuates.

A painfully shocking redesign of my insides. Before: Jeremy and Liza. Now: Jeremy slash Liza.

Purple-eyed and blue-eyed, level and manic, balancing one another in ways we’d never known. My hand still bears Jeremy’s three words in scrawled, pretty writing—untouched, unwashed. And I’d have it tattooed, if it could be managed.

Reading it a million times does nothing but reinforce the craziness I’ve submitted myself to.

First, three days passed by.

Then a week.

Not knowing is the worst.

Not knowing is hell.

This is hell.

On the eighth day, my door unlocks, and there stands the Mouse King himself. “Come with me, my dear,” Reginald says.

“Where is Jeremy, you bastard!”

He ignores the hissing creature that greets him, and turns on his heel to leave.

Instructed to dress for company, I shove my shaky, angry limbs into the red gown and gather up the fabric in a tight, sweaty grip, wrinkling it instantly to run after the big rat.

A
group of guards trail us past the empty dining hall to an office, where our leader motions to a chair and moves behind his desk to sit. “I’d offer you a drink,” he says while pouring himself a glass of something golden, “but I will not waste my maids on another night of scrubbing floors.”

His lavish furnishings glow, the polish of the cherry wood catching the firelight. It’s chilly again tonight. Anywhere else in the world, this setting would be warm and inviting, instead of masking the cold and calculating.

This man’s barely said anything directly to me before now, which shows his dark wisdom. His message is loud and clear: I’m only important when he deems me so, and my regard is measured out by his attention. My side has no leverage … or do they?

Except, for some reason he hasn’t killed me. Hasn’t even laid a finger on me. Could his only hope to quell the uprising lie with us? Me and Jeremy?

Reginald lifts a stack of papers with handwriting that’s flourished and precise. The same perfect letters that are scrawled across my palm. Clenching my fingers, I push the fear down, stuffing it away for later. He holds Jeremy’s demands before placing them on his desk.

He lights a cigar, lifts the stack again, and puffs, cheeks hollowing. Bringing the paper to the cherry glow at the end, he holds the corner to it until the pages catch fire.

Silence envelopes us as we watch them burn. Then, he tosses them into the fireplace. The cinders of our demands still smolder while we wait, unmoving, like in a staged performance: the Mouse King in his chair, pleased and plump; the guards at my back, frozen and waiting for commands; and me, not so still or pleasant, but rather vibrating with anger.

Weakness threads through my voice. “Where’s Jeremy?”

He ignores my question. “Those papers had the word ‘rights’ on just about every page. Once upon a time, we supported everyone’s rights, and we ruled ourselves into uselessness.”

“Where. Is. He.”

Reginald goes on, like I’m not even in the office. “Our history is littered with poverty; people dying from starvation and sickness. Do you want to see that happen again? Have you noticed any of that in Anthem?”

“Hiding it doesn’t truly make it gone.”

“It’s under control.”

“The mantra of a dictator.”

Vile lips smile, and it frustrates me to notice their commonality to Jeremy’s; his bottom lip is heavier than the top, same as his boy’s. “Liza, we would have forced ourselves into extinction. I’m about survival, above all else.”

“This was caused by desperation. You can’t heap more over-reaction to follow and expect abundance.”

“You’ve been fed lies, girl.”

“I’ve been given a front row seat to your truths, old man. No thanks. We fought our way from death and tyranny before, and we can do it again. Now I ask you one more time: where is Jeremy?”

Reginald snorts. “So the tiny tot from the Upper East Side of Manhattan knows what the world needs? She makes demands, shouts me down like a proper revolutionary, eh?”

That word: Manhattan. It’s like a memory, and nothing more.

But hearing it for the first time in so long jolts me from my sleeper state, and I’m suddenly dizzy with fury. “Dictatorship swooped in when we were too weak to fight, when we were too broken to remember who we were. But the people are awake now. They want to cut you up and use you for bait. When they get here, and they will … I’ll be first in line to watch them tear you apart.”

“Dictatorship? Such youthful ideals. Will you tell me that money’s the root of all evil, too? Greed can’t ever outwit the want for eternity, my dear; living forever far outweighs that. The people of Anthem don’t hate me. They hate the place they’ve put themselves in.”

“Eternity?” I say. “Is that what you call it? Becoming a zombie isn’t a way to live. And here, Anthem City, is
no
place to live. I wouldn’t want another two hundred years like this if you’d paid me. How’s that for lack of greed and want for immortality?”

He rubs his mustache, eyes black and beady, narrowing on me. “Not the zombies. We’re
this
close to making it a reality for everyone to live like they do. What? You haven’t heard? Jeremy didn’t tell you?” His rat mouth quirks, and I’m back to wondering if they are even related. “I can see why he likes you,” Reginald says, as if reading my mind. “But you don’t know what it’s like to age and wilt, and leave the world to a younger, dumber generation; to watch them waste precious youth and resources. People don’t really know what they need; they have to be told.”

“Says every communist before Hitler, till now.”

“Agreed. But not all of their ideas were bad.”

“And not every rabid animal was always so.”

“Touché.”

I stand. “But they must be put down all the same.”

“Sit. Now.”

A guard hammers a hand onto my shoulder, forcing me to sit. I fight the urge to spit on the Mouse King’s desk. “Every emperor who built his empire on the backs of slaves had something to show for it. The pyramids can be seen from space, but was it worth millions of lives?”

Reginald leans back in his chair. “A humanitarian,
and
worldly. I like it. But do you see a kingdom here?”

“One in ashes, but yes … I do.”

“Your father was Jiles Randusky, was he not? You know, I saw him play once. Ah … I do so love the surprise on your face to know that I, like you, am human and indeed have a history outside of … this.” He gestures around. “Your father was a miracle in front of the piano. I imagine that you and I had probably passed one another on the street once or twice. How small a world, eh? What say you join us in this part of the city and gift us with your music, Liza? I could give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

My anger leaves in a breath, replaced by sadness. “I was sick,” I tell him. My voice is distant, hoarse, and I stare at nothing. “No one cared what I had to offer when I had cancer. You despise the sick, treat them like animals, fear death so damned much, you never looked around to see you had no life here. What it was … what we had …” Black hatred and shock tinges my words in a whisper. “Mimi.”

There’s pure pleasure in seeing Reginald pale upon hearing her name, so I say it again.

“Mimi—Melissa. How can you even look at yourself? You’re the devil!”

His face pinches, and he stabs out his cigar, snuffing it like so many lives he’d shipped off, including his youngest daughter’s. Reginald leans forward, teeth bared, while the bones beneath the skin press tightly like they’re trying to leave. “When they’re full of disease, this is how they’ll be treated. They cost us so many resources out there on their private little vacation!”

I cackle, witch-like and dry, my own teeth bared. “It’s never too expensive to be a good human being. Nothing costs greater than being evil. Kindness is free, you bastard! Being a great father to your child is easily the cheapest thing on earth!” I bolt to my feet, and a guard grabs my arms to stop me from lunging across his desk. “You have a daughter! Had—maybe she’s gone already …” I shake the guard away and cover my mouth at the horror of that thought alone.
Dead.
Mimi’s face, tiny and significant, brings a fresh dread. “A beautiful little girl. She’s sick, not inhuman. She’s alone—scared! You could go get her at any time!”