Gods of Anthem (18 page)

I shake my head at Defoe, who looks like he’s about to say what we all want to, and I signal for us to move on.

“Sick,” Defoe mutters so only I can hear.

But I’m focused on my breathing. My heart rate’s too high. Any minute I could—

The village appears; out of the green, it reveals itself. We’ve reached the edge of the jungle, and the scene before us is like something out of Vietnam, only … we’re in the middle of Sweden. Our group had watched tons of footage of the old wars, but the Third World War was the toughest to see, because small nukes were used to destroy entire cities, leaving nothing but craters where metropolises had once thrived.

It’s almost evening now, and a purple sky hangs heavy over the abandoned village. I can sense everyone behind me is reluctant to enter, too. The wind picks up, rustling the grass roofs, like fingers that beckon us to our doom. I’m not the only one who shudders from the eerie hissing sound.

The village is a ghost town. Had the stiffs eaten the other teams? If so, where’d they all go?

Cory, I notice, isn’t so eager to lead anymore. With a sigh, I straighten and say, “Reload.” Clicks and taps ensue as we knock off our empty mags and let the next round of bullets hitch a ride under the M-4s. “Check your belts. Flash grenades only,” I say, reminding them of close quarters and all. “We don’t need to blow ourselves up.”

The resounding “Roger!” from the ten guys behind me is rather subdued.

I lift my hand, and they fan back out into a wedge.

We begin to move forward slowly as one.

We have been trained.

We have been trialed.

And I get the feeling we’re about to find out just how little that really means.

Manda stands in
my apartment, arms crossed. “Come on, Mo. It’s time to do something besides work and sit around.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I’m engrossed in reading. The book had cost nearly half my week’s pay, but it’s written by a British author my mother loved, and upon spotting it in the hands of one of my commune-mates, I’d begged and cajoled to obtain it.

This is my third read-through.

“Mo-oh,” Manda whines.

I’m starting to wonder if she should have gotten ready at her own place; mine now smells like half a bottle of cheap perfume. She tilts her head at my book’s cover, sounding the words out before sitting on my bed with a pout. “You gonna read that crap all night? Readin’ is only good for one thing, ya know.”

Manda twists toward my wall mirror and presses her chest into cleavage of light brown skin. “My mothah always told me it’s for tryna look smart for a guy, or tryna keep ya husband out of your pants. Neithah is goin’ on in here, so let’s go.”

When I don’t answer, she says, “Fine. What if I told ya there’s lots more of those where we’re goin?”

“Lots of what?”

“Books, dumb-dumb! Tons of ‘em. Ones the Authority ain’t gonna let you just buy on the cornah.”

After this, I can’t get ready fast enough.

Whenever
I say “yes” to Manda, I regret it.

Since it’s after curfew, we have to sneak through the streets, and Manda has these little hand signals: flapping really fast in my face means “stop,” while putting a finger practically up my nose and then pointing means
“
thata way.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “The guards don’t come past this part.”

I hesitate for obvious reasons. “Where are we going?”

“You know how New York had Long Island, the City, and Harlem? Rich folks in their own space are like Long Island, you and I live in the City, and this …” We step turn into an alleyway where people are funneled into a building. “ … is Harlem.”

It’s a gymnasium at the end, only five times the normal size. Two rugged men wearing camo and carrying guns stand at the entrance. By the sound from inside, there must be hundreds of people in there.

Manda winks at one of the men standing at the door, and he smiles, flashing a gold tooth before nodding us through.

We’re shoved around once inside, jostled in the crowd. There’s music playing, and tables for gaming. Some people even hold the leashes of large muzzled dogs. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a dog, though these aren’t fluffy house pets.

We pass a game of dice, and one guy rolls before he reaches for the cash stacked in the middle of a ring of people. I’m towed away by Manda, barely moved clear of the swinging fists when a fight breaks out as they identify a cheater.

“Where are we?” I ask.

She laughs and pulls out a cigarette. “This, my friend, is paradise. But ya might know it bettah if I just say it’s the black mahket where we trade the kinds of things the Authority’s nixed. Folks that run this place, they go into the wilds to get stuff.”

“The wilds…?”

“Yeah.” Manda nods, brown eyes sparkling. “A bunch of the guys go into the old cities. Fight the zombies. So hot, right?”

Manda reaches across a nearby table to grab a cup. She digs into her pocket and leaves some bills behind. “Here.” She hands the cup to me and takes another for herself.

Real money; she’d pulled out green cash from the old days. She gestures for me to drink, but I stare into the fizzy yellow liquid with reluctance.

“It’s beeah. Sorta. The only kind we can make.”

My brain translates: beer.

The guy behind the table nods at me, waiting eagerly while I try a sip. Bitter, but definitely tasty. “This is very good!” I tell him.

We check out the various booths. In one, music boxes sit on glass shelves, and my fingers feel each one before I move on. None have a ballerina like mine. A pang comes at the thought that I’ll never see her again. How I miss my little music box.

A young tattoo artist is taking customers at the next booth. The whir of his gun buzzes above the talking and the music. His drawings are beautiful, and the work he’s done practically leaps off the skin in 3D.

A set of angel’s wings in his book catches my eye.

“Those are new,” a deep voice says over my shoulder, startling me. The tattoo artist has taken a break and come to join me.

I pet the feathers that look so alive on the page. “They’re amazing.”

He’s got a cocksure grin and pretty green eyes that flick up and down the length of my body, making me self-conscious. “They’re meant to be on the back,” he says, “each wing on the shoulder blade.” His touch on my back makes me blush. He notices the short hair beneath my hoodie, but seems to shrug it off.

“Well … I’d better find my friend,” I say, still smiling at him. I can’t stop. The beer’s made me fuzzy in the hot environment, and I’m steadying myself against the table.

The tattoo gun starts up again, and the artist leans over his customer to fill in an outlined image of a spider. The young woman turns her head to look at me through dull black eyes. Lines—scars—crisscross her cheeks. She stares as if daring me to look away, and when she sees that I won’t, one corner of her mouth lifts.

“Found her,” a deep voice calls nearby.

A dark-skinned man holding a big gun walks toward the tattoo booth with meaning. Manda’s nowhere to be seen, and this man jerks his chin in my direction. “Are you the girl who came from the Island?”

I glance around stunned. But before I’ve worked out my answer, he leans into the booth and roughly yanks back my hoodie. Upon seeing my hair, he sucks his teeth and grabs my arm.

“Hey, wait!” I cry. “Where are you taking me? Where’s Manda?”

Everyone stops to watch as the man tows me along like so much luggage. “Kiniva wants to see you,” he mutters.

“Kanana who?”

“Kiniva.” He pulls me back the way we’d come. “He runs this place.”

“Why?”

The muscle ignores me.

We exit into a hallway through a side door. With so many twists and turns after that, I quickly lose my way. He pushes me into a room that’s furnished well and lit poorly.

On the far end there’s a man sitting in a leather chair. He’s got two leashed dogs that strain their tethers, growling.

“
Tranquilo
,” the man says between cigar puffs.

Above, lights flicker with too little infused electricity, and there’s a constant drip of water. An unmistakable musky scent of sweaty men permeates the air. We’re lower here, maybe beneath the black market.

With the cigar clenched between large front teeth, the man says, “This
latina
, Amanda, is she your friend?” He’s dressed in old-style military fatigues of dark green and black, and a maroon beret tops off the image. The gun in his lap is his only other accessory and incredibly modern by contrast.

My nod is cordial.

Kiniva squints when a tendril of smoke finds his eye. “She says to me that someone’s come back from the Island. This true?”

Another nod.

He
tsks
as if in challenge, while the man holding me brings me closer. “The thing about that place is nobody ever comes back,” Kiniva says, curling a finger around the cigar to motion at me with it. “No. Body. I’m sure you know this to be the case. These other
mensos
saying,
la
chica es un fantasma
?” He elaborates when he thinks I’ve not understood, “Ghost,
flaca
, a ghost. They think you’re some …
wooooowoooo
…” Kiniva wiggles his other hand while making a ghost’s howl. “
Estan
todos locos
? Are they all crazy…?”