Gods of Anthem (16 page)

“Well,
would you look at that….” Journee shakes his head.

We’ve moved up onto the roof after Manda had complained that we needed a better view.

When the first train car goes by, I’m as surprised as everyone else. The large container has been tagged on the side with an anarchy symbol from top to bottom.

The next car reads: Against

The third: All

And the fourth: Authority

And that’s when it dawns on me what’s different about the train: It’s completely empty.

“They’ve hijacked it,” Serena gasps.

“Who?”

Other roofs in Section have now filled with people; the rest of our commune has arrived to see what the commotion is about.

Journee answers, “Them,” and he points to a figure crouched on top of one of the cars with a face masked in black fabric that’s painted to look like a skull. It seems familiar. People hoot and holler when they spot him.

Another car passes with a skull mural on the side. It’s the same as the one I’d seen on the door of the theatre bathroom stall. This draws more excited yells. People from a few of the neighboring roofs hold papers up, shaking them at the train.

“Pamphlets,” Journee says. “Damned idiots.”

More cars pass with more masked figures.

“You think they’re doing this because of Jeremy?” Manda whispers to Journee while I pretend not to hear.

But I give in to temptation and ask, “Why would they do that?”

Journee smirks in my direction. “Well, their leader just got released, didn’t he?”

I focus overly hard on the train to avoid answering.

On the last car stands a lone figure who doesn’t wear a mask. Thick brown hair flies around an all-too-familiar face and my stomach drops.

Jeremy Writer.

Applause and whistles erupt while I’m trying to inch behind Journee to hide for no reason. At this distance, he couldn’t possibly see me, yet I can’t help but feel exposed.

Journee looks around nervously as the noise escalates to a steady roar. “We’d better get back inside,” he says. “This’ll mean guards.”

At the bottom of the ladder, after the twins are out of earshot, I stop Journee to say, “Sorry.”

He grins at me and rubs his neck. “Yeah. The lady who hired you was pissed, until I told her you were new, and if she wanted better-trained proxies, it’ll cost her double.” He laughs. “She paid up, too. It’s on your bed, minus my cut.”

“So you’re not mad?”

Journee raises his brows. “Hell no! I think some more screw-ups like that are in order, as long as they pay off.”

My relief’s instant.

“But at the same time …” He glances around before lowering his voice. “I’d try to stay out of sight for a while. The Authority isn’t going to be too happy about Jeremy being loose again, especially after this stunt today.”

I give an emphatic nod.

Journee’s warm hand lands on my shoulder. “That means no more playing hero down at the courthouse anymore, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

I
pull open
the door to the barracks Joelle and I share. We have our own place—all the Specials do—but ours is in the farthest abandoned building.

Joelle’s sitting on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. She can’t eat food, though she makes me buy her some anyway, just for pretend. She likes to seem normal. Her thick black hair’s in pigtails, and she’s painted her toenails … and the couch underneath them. Though her sight’s perfect, black frames perch on a dainty noise that’s red, and her eyes look red, too.

I glance up at the flat screen, then back at her face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, feeling uncomfortable, having only recently dealt with Joelle’s “woman trouble.” And by “dealt with” I mean ran and woke up Vero at three a.m. to aid us with womanhood and all of its irrational glory.

“This!” Joelle flings a hand at the screen. “Pause!” she yells, and it obeys.

“What’s up?” I ask cautiously.

Joelle stares at me in total overdone teenage-girl despair. The “you should know what I’m talking about like a mind reader” look
gets me every time.

I say, “Uh-oh, should I call Vero?” There’s only so much a seventeen-year-old boy can do for girls. They’re … confusing. Three sisters later, and I still have trouble with … everything.

Joelle wipes her nose before she looks away, determined to show me the amount of drama intended. “I broke down and watched a movie,” she says, looking guilty. “You know, about them … us.”

I nod, completely unsure of what she’s talking about. “Okay,” I reply carefully, crossing my arms and leaning back against a bunk.

This could be a while.

“Well,” Joelle continues, “these ones were able to go out in the day and stuff. Why can’t I go out in the sunlight? Anyway, and they eat deer—
yuck
—and they fall in love, which I guess is kind of cool. But they were …” She pauses as if she can’t bear to go on, then says in a whisper, “Sparkly …” And her face scrunches up.

I frown in confusion, but she ignores me. “And not scary at all,” she adds for emphasis, “so I’m not sure what’s more upsetting: the fact that they were kind of lame, or that they can do lots more stuff than I can. They even played baseball, and it was just so … weak. You said we were cool, Tommy!”

Joelle’s deadpan expression crumples again, and when I lift a brow in answer, she turns more epically appalled at my lack of reaction.

Then, it dawns on me. “Sparkly…?”

“Yeah, they were pretty! And, I dunno, I just thought we were way more awesome—
you
said we were way cooler than that! You said we were, like, revered before, or at least had a cult following. I don’t know if I can handle this … this … what is it I’m feeling?”

I rub my face to hide my grin. “Yes, Joelle, you
are
cool. And if you wanted to watch your first vampire movie, you shouldn’t have picked
that
one. I’ll give you a list.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She giggles. “Now?”

I sigh. No time to sleep, not with Jo-Jo around. Truth is, though, she gives me so much entertainment, and it was so damned lonely before the little hissing imp came into my life. If she left now, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

Flipping through the display with the touch screen, I find what I’m looking for. Joelle wrinkles her nose as I nab the melted ice cream from her lap and take a seat next to her.

“Dracuuula?” she says slowly, then laughs. “That’s silly.”

I pull out what’s left of my best West Texas drawl. “Oh, you won’t be laughin’ for long, little darlin’.”

Joelle slants me a side-glance.

“This stuff is spooky!” I exclaim, and grab the blanket to hide behind.

She rolls her eyes, yet scoots closer to fit under my arm.

“Play,” I command the screen, and the dramatic music cues.

But as the movie rolls on, I have more fun watching Joelle’s surprise and excitement, and then fear, than I do viewing the actual movie.

Joelle’s not like most of us special UG projects. I’d gone into the Underground at age sixteen, broken, having given up on life, so it mattered little what they did to me. But Jo-Jo was the unlucky daughter of an original UG scientist, born to someone who’d opted for her first “whoops” baby to be a test subject at the ripe old age of nine. With a single, workaholic parent and her only entertainment available in foreign languages, Joelle spent all of her time playing in the labs with other frigid geeks.

And she never feels sorry for herself. Not at all.

When I first heard Joelle’s story, I’d been crushed for her. My parents loved all of their kids, and they would have cherished the beautiful little girl that she must have been back then, and still is, with dark eyes and lashes that blink up at you in a
naïveté long since missing from this age. Her testing had been archaic, and certainly would have been more painful than mine. To imagine it makes the ice cream in my stomach curdle. For all of her antics, Jo-Jo is the most positive human being left on this hellish rock. And I plan on keeping it that way.

Joelle gasps at a scene in
Dracula,
and I grin. Her experience with things outside of the lab is miniscule, and her childlike innocence is still prevalent. I soak it up. In this jaded world, Joelle’s awe is like ambrosia, and it makes my heart ache. My middle sister had been her age when—

Joelle sits up and turns to face me. “Are you thinking of your family, Tommy?” she asks in her uncanny way.

“I am,” I reply.

“Your daddy, the preacher man?”

“Him, too.”

“How come you don’t talk about it?”

I deftly change the subject. “’Cause he and I … we didn’t agree on everything. He wanted me to be like him.”

“And you don’t wanna.”

“No, I don’t wanna.”