Gods of Anthem (19 page)

He doesn’t let me answer, not that trying to explain I’m corporeal makes any sense. Instead, Kiniva stands and puts a hand out in front of the dogs to stay them. When they fail to listen, he pivots and barks at them—actually
barks,
as if
he’s
a dog—before shouldering the gun to walk a circle of smoke around me. He flicks my cheek, making me flinch. “I’m no so s
upersticioso
as those other men; I don’t believe in the spooky things that are really bed sheets in the night.” He puts the cigar into my face. “But I did have to see for myself. You feel as real as any skinny girl I’ve ever met. So, you did really come from the Island, no? They let you go?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“I see….” But his expression is clearly one of confusion. Kiniva gestures to me, then back. “Why do they have to keep us so tightly under their heels? Do you think it’s because when you are sick, that is all they see? And my skin, my accent, that is all they see…?”

“Maybe.”

He puffs on his cigar.

The beer has made me brave. “Or they’re afraid of us.”

Kiniva’s gaze sharpens, and he snubs the cigar on a boot, leaning forward with new interest. He gestures for me to continue.

“Maybe they don’t like different,” I go on, “because in this place, it’s easier to control when everything’s the same. You can make slaves out of the same. You’re right; they don’t like me because they can’t control my sickness.” Stepping forward, I conceal a smile when Kiniva swallows and covers his nose. “Permit me to explain,
Señor
Kiniva, in …
Creo que tiene todas
las armas que necesita para ser una amenaza
. You cannot be controlled. You cannot be understood. The Authority does not like that at all.”

“We are all so civilized,” he says, “while the Authority is allowed to ravage us like rabid dogs.”

He returns to his place near the chair and rubs the massive dome of one of his obviously augmented beasts. They’re humongous, eyes wild and red. They are not your average canine.

“It is only right to put down the animals who turn on us,” Kiniva says. “What say you to that, Ghost Lady?”

My gaze meets his evenly, and he can glean from it what he will.

He laughs. “
Si, señorita
. I think you and I see eye to eye on this. That island, it must have left a nice impression.”

Kiniva thinks for a moment. “I’d like to invite you to the fights tonight.”

“Dog fights are not really to my taste.”

He chuckles, then gives a whistle. The dogs follow, and he winks at me as they move past. “They do not fight each other,
Bonita
. Never each other. They are brothers. United.”

This
other building where the fights are held is even larger than the first. Stacked seats, stadium-style, hold bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s nothing short of ripe in here. But I’m distracted by the gathering itself.

Hope wells at the visual proof that the Authority hasn’t reined in everyone just yet.

But it’s possible they see a benefit to this place. Let the citizens become strong, but keep their minds weak.

At the stadium’s center is a large fenced ring floored with sand, and that makes me nervous. I’m not exactly spectator material for gladiator fights; I’d just rather buy my books and leave.

And I still haven’t seen Manda. Declining Kiniva’s offer would have been rude, so hopefully she’ll spot me in the crowd and help me sneak away during the fight.

Kiniva has me in his row, and people are staring. Curiosity sits in a few gazes, outright hostility in others.

Handlers walk Kiniva’s massive animals into the arena on the far side. Once free, the dogs attack the fences, but not each other and I let go a breath.

The crowd’s cheer is proof that what happens next is
not
unexpected by anyone but myself. Other handlers approach the ring, only these are leading zombies.

Two undead, chained at the legs and hands, struggle at the end of long poles, heads in wooden boxes with holes so they can’t bite anyone, although that doesn’t stop them from trying.

I’m so surprised that I can only gape as they march them onto a platform where, in one swift movement, the handlers unshackle and un-box them before pushing them into the pit.

The zombies land on the sand with a fleshy thud, now stuck inside the arena with the dogs. A buzzer sounds and a timer starts to count upward from zero. I cover my eyes.

The crowd’s roar is deafening, and I sneak a peek through my fingers. I’ve never seen zombies outside of being chased back on the Island or the one inside the theatre bathroom. These have eaten recently, and it’s obvious how they change tactic from the fence to the dogs as soon as they realize the futility of clawing at the metal.

There is some sort of minimal thought involved in this decision that raises the hair on my arms. The zombies’ snapping jaws and swinging arms make Kiniva’s animals more careful, too. The two canine brothers look like pit bulls, only three times the size, with wiry fur that curls away from their massive heads. And they work together with such precision—one leads a zombie off, while the other grabs a foot or an ankle; a method they do in several rotations. Seems they’d been trained for this purpose alone.

The work is quick, and red streaks the sand as the dogs finish off the undead in an array of impressively deadly maneuvers.

Before another round can begin, I’m rushing off, hand over my churning stomach. “Bad idea, Liza,” I whisper to myself. “Very, very bad idea.”

The nearest doors spit me back outside instead of into the hallways. Night’s cool air is helping already, though, and I lean against the building’s brick wall with my eyes closed, thinking about heading home on my own. Manda will just have to find me later.

A figure moves in the shadows of the alleyway, startling me. He stops not far from where I stand.

“You can breathe again,” he says. “I already know you’re there.” He seems to notice my hesitation. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

That’s what Grey Eyes said, but I’m too busy forcing myself not to puke to try to run. “Would you warn me if you were?” I ask.

“Probably not.” He laughs.

It’s a nice laugh. Doesn’t sound like the laugh a murderer would have. Or a rapist. My sigh from that insane thought is long and loud. Probably the beer.

“You sound too young to be so depressed,” he says.

There’s the hint of a smile in his voice. It’s a nice voice—deep, steady.

“I was just thinking, is all.”

“What about?”

Everything comes out at once. “About how you say I sound too young to be down, and how ironic that is, because at my age, my mother was skydiving over volcanoes and zip lining through the jungle while being offered dance positions in every country that held major studios, and my father, well, he had composed his second great symphony and requiem. So actually, for my age, I’m quite behind, being thoroughly depressed over some larger-than-life issue and career, and very aptly depressed over the state of things, and rightly so, if you ask me, which you didn’t, and here I am blathering …”

Hand to my head, I mutter to myself, “Instead of having those types of opportunities, I’m watching dogs shred people in some sort of underground cage match.”

Silence hangs between us while I wonder if I haven’t scared him off. Not that that would be a bad thing.

He makes a noise in his throat and says, “That’s strange.”

“Which part?”

“You’re the only other person I’ve ever heard who’s referred to them as people.”

I sniffle. “Well, I don’t usually, but one time … oh, never mind.”

“No, what? Tell me.” He shuffles closer.

“I swear, there was this one … it was as if—this may sound strange—but it was like … it wanted to say something to me.” I move into the moonlight. “Does that sound crazy?”

He comes forward, as well. “Not at all.”

I’d recognize those purple eyes anywhere. At once, they fill with surprise, seeming to almost light up.

“You,” he says.

I cross my arms. “And you.”

“But, your hair…?”

The blonde patch of recent growth is kinky but there; it’s starting to find my old curls already. “It was a wig,” I say.

He steps forward some more, and I sense that he’s angry. “Why’d you save me?”

“What?”

Jeremy Writer balls up his fists. “I wanted to die for the cause! I had it all planned out. It was going to help start a revolution. Maybe not right then, but later.”

Irritation boils inside, though not enough to get myself throttled by a revolutionary. What kind of sociopath is this guy?

“I thought I was helping you,” I tell him.

He cuts off a dry laugh with the back of his hand. “Helping me!” His incredulity echoes down the alleyway. “I got caught on purpose. I signed the damned things with my own name!”

Anger twists the face of his ignorant zeal.

My guffaw echoes, as well. “You’re certainly in the right place for a suicidal breakdown! This is
the
place
to die, in fact. Perfect timing, too, because your chances of dying nowadays are incredibly high! Why don’t you just turn yourself in, then, huh? I’m sure the Authority would just
love
to grant you your wish.”

But Jeremy shakes his head. “It needed to be then. It could have sparked an uprising. I’d wanted … I just hoped it would have been enough.”

I give another sniff. Jeremy seems to have brought out the snob in me. “Ugh. Martyrdom is so last century. I thought you were a patriot. Now it turns out you’re just some sort of nutjob.”

He stares at my hair again like something’s dawned on him. “Why’s your hair so short? What are you, sick or something?”

Manda’s voice cuts through my curt reply as she jogs toward us. “There you are! Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I say with disgust. I look Jeremy Writer up and down with a piercing glare. “I was just leaving.”

We turn to go, but he grabs my sweater. “Wait.”

In a flash, Manda steps between us and presses a blade to his neck. “My girl Mozart here was just leavin,
capiche
?”

He ignores her, still staring at me with those bizarre violet eyes. “Mozart, huh? Why do they call you that?”

Smugness replaces my surprise. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s the same reason they call you Writer.”

“Yeah,” Manda says slyly. “And how ya gonna do any writin’ without a head?”

Incredibly, Jeremy Writer smiles.