Gods of Anthem (49 page)

The ground won’t
stay still beneath me. Yet I simultaneously float on a hardness. My last moments will be full of the uprising’s explosions. There’s a small amount of satisfaction in this.

Jeremy
….

Yelling and pandemonium surround me, breaking glass, people running. “Bar the doors!”

Through the chaos, someone draws near. “Get Crystal. She’ll want to see this. And someone secure … him.”

A voice drops near my ear. “Oh no, Liza … can you hear me?”

Crystal
… I want to say, but my body won’t respond.

“Is she dead?”

“I don’t know … Oh, Liza, hang on. Don’t you give up on me.”

“So much blood,” says someone else.

“She’s so pale,” says another.

“What do we do about him?”

Crystal answers last. “Just get the doctor!”

“I’m here.”

There’s something familiar about that voice.

“Can you help her?” Crystal asks, sounding relieved.

Metallic and clear, Pretend Man answers, “I’m not sure. Let’s move.”

I’ve had nothing
to do but dream in this place. The Authority flew me to an island, put me in a bubble, only to feed me stuff through a straw every week so I can’t transition. This doctor with a rubber face comes in, and even though he tries to be … normal … he’s one creepy guy.

To this day, I’ve never heard anyone call him by name.

He checks me over, but there’s something off about him. When he smiles, it’s empty. When he speaks, it’s with weird foreknowledge.

I’d put my money on his being a Special, if I didn’t know that only the Underground has them.

This place is the Authority’s island for sick people, or so it seems.

No clue what they plan to do with me. So far, they’ve kept me caged like an animal inside four clear walls of glass too thick to break. I’ve tried.

And the days pass….

Only one interesting thing’s happened in months: the bubble next to mine has recently acquired a tenant. She doesn’t talk much. Could be the coma she’s in, or the numerous tests they perform to seemingly help or kill her. Either of which, I’m not sure. Now, I pace the edge of my space, glancing over at the monitors and tubes they use to keep her alive. Her stomach’s patched up where the wound was ripped back open from her seizure last week.

She has short hair—fine, blonde, and curly—and eyes that never open, so out of boredom, I try to guess their color. She looks so small and pale, and I have to keep myself from pounding on the inside of my own bubble to tell them to put their paddles away whenever they insist on making her heart beat on.

“How
’s Marilyn today?”

My new medicine keeps the monster at bay, but Daisy still shows up at times. I’m thankful for her presence, even if it is evidence of my fracturing psyche.

Right now, she’s sitting on my bed, blue-tinged arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold. Her auburn hair is the only color inside of the bubble.

“She looks … peaceful,” I say.

I’ve named my neighbor Marilyn. She’s no Monroe, but I like it. A blonde bombshell in life, though this one’s a different kind of bombshell. I know she’s a Special. I’m not great with deducing these things, and it wasn’t until the machines started to levitate while they were changing her clothes that I realized what had happened.

Super-Special.

When the machines had risen up, everyone froze, myself included, and the hair on my arms prickled. Then, the staff ran around like a bunch of nutcases until Rubber Man attempted to explain it away. He seems to be the only one who understood it. He’s also trying to keep our Special status a secret.

“
That
’s good that she’s peaceful,
” says Daisy. “
It
stresses you out whenever she has nightmares.
”

“It does. Sometimes she almost hurts herself before they come to help her. Is that normal?” I ask. “Nightmares in a coma?”

“
I
only know what you know, Tommy. But probably not. Is
there anything normal about Marilyn?
”

I wonder about that, too. But then again, when you live in a bubble, you start to wonder about everything, your sanity included.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for Marilyn. I try not to, but I do. I don’t like that this dying girl has to do it right in front of me, each and every time.

I even dream about it.

Although I turn away and try not to watch, I find myself glued to the glass, hoping for her. I catch myself muttering a prayer each time. But inevitably, I’m praying for her to go, to leave, for the Authority to stop reviving her tiny body.

She must be in hell. Not literal Hell, but to have a body keep trying to give up, only to be brought back to exist in an aquarium the rest of your life?

The hiss of her machines is really my only company at the moment. That, and Daisy.

Which isn’t saying much.

“
Hey
,” Daisy says.

“Sorry.”

Today,
a young woman comes in to speak with the doctor, Rubber Man, who looks surprised to see her. I’m lying on my side, and when they glance in my direction, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

“The guards didn’t see you, did they, Crystal?”

“No.”

She walks over to Marilyn and leans down. Her dark hair makes Marilyn’s almost-white tresses even brighter. “Is she going to make it?” asks the one he’d called Crystal.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Rubber Man seems to find that humorous. “Remember when I pulled you out from that third round of purging? You were almost dead, nearly a zombie, red eyes and all. If I can bring you back from that type of hell, trust me to do it again.”

The young woman looks sad. “When she fought in the arena, it was impossible what she did.”

“You are stronger now, too.”

“Not like that.”

“Not like that, no. But she’s different.”

“How so?”

“She’s been here a long time. Or had been.”

“How long?”

“We’d begun when she was a child, and at first, nothing.”

He’s said that final word with a great bitterness. “Then,” he continues, “she’d been near death, like you, but rather than it almost killing her with it already in her system, I waited until she was—”

“Dead,” Crystal supplies.

“Yes. We’d administered what we’d had, then revived her. It’s different from all the others.”

“What’s different?”

“Wasn’t sure … at first.”

“And now?”

“I’m quite sure.”

The woman seems frustrated with his lack of information, as am I.

“You said ‘others’?”

He nods.

“You select them?”

Another nod. He thinks for a moment, then seems to reveal a large secret to the woman. “I believe you know one: Melissa Cromwell.”

Crystal gasps. “No. Not Mimi.”

“Should I let her die?”

Rubber Man does not ask this like a normal person would: with attachment. He asks as though expecting the woman to comment on the weather, and if they should bring an umbrella, just in case.

Crystal seems unsure of how to answer, which gives me more information than I’ve had since I’ve arrived. Worse than death, perhaps? I regard my dark side and agree.

“What will you do?” she asks.

A far door slams with a loud boom.

“The guards.” She flicks her braid over one shoulder, saying something too quiet for me to catch.

“I’m aware,” he replies.

“We’re alone in this—again.”

“I know. You ready to give up?

“Never.”

“That’s my girl.”