Gods of Anthem (25 page)

We travel back
to the site of the explosion, where Jeremy reluctantly leaves it with a backwards glance. He’s proud of his work. And I’m proud of him.

The Skulls have made their point without hurting anyone. That’s tough to do in times like these.

He’s a passive activist who’s not interested in making innocent people pay for the Authority’s sins. Many times Jeremy’s said that his dream is for them to just give up.

Fitting myself into his ideals is impossible. Dreams of crushing the Authority’s leaders underfoot are constant, and always violent. Reginald and Karma Cromwell—names now to match the faces—hover in the night, smiling softly at me, daring my retribution.

Another secret between us, Jeremy and I—my wanting to hurt them just like what I’d done to the grey-eyed man from the Island. Blood for blood. Not exactly a passive idea.

Jeremy takes us farther into the city, where the richest areas still surprise me. Technology gets better and more deftly used by the wealthier society. Beautiful people glide around us so starkly that they notice my shabbier clothes.

Jeremy supplies that many of the elite are augmented through surgeries to perfect themselves far beyond what we were capable of before the flood.

He says, “Sketch artists draw exactly how you’d like to be, and after a few reworks of your bone structure, things are casted and filled and thinned and permanently transplanted—hair and eyebrows, teeth, even new jaws.”

All too dizzying to imagine.

But not for long.

A mannequin standing at the corner twists its head on a too-smooth neck to grin with lips that ever-so-slightly stretch the poreless skin.

The thing yawns open its mouth to speak. “Excuse me,” it says to us, before striding away in a robotic glide.

Jeremy grabs my elbow and gazes at me knowingly. “They’re pretty scary at first,” he says.

“It … he … didn’t even seem human. I thought it was an ad!”

Still, there are more—they litter the areas near ritzy shops and buildings, smooth faces and movements making me shudder. Now that I’ve seen one, I notice them all over the place.

My stomach growls from smelling local restaurants, and Jeremy chuckles under his breath.

Sizzling meat on the grill fetches memories of old times, making my mouth water. I force myself not to smash my face to the glass panes to see the steaming plates of food and watch the plastic people feed one another. They sit so still in between bites; one speaks animatedly while the other’s frozen, perfectly, not even blinking, before they, too, re-animate to fawn over the other who’s fallen still. It’s almost as if they’re synchronized.

“Why are they so strange?” I ask.

Jeremy’s expression is one of disgust. “The newest rejuvenation programs put them all into deep sleeps for longer periods than a night’s rest. Some go for months at a time. This keeps them young. Instead of a vacation, you go into a tank and sleep in a sort of medically induced coma. It adds years to your life, they say.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“You don’t dream either, and when you wake, it’s like nothing’s happened while you were gone. The longest has been almost a year. Anything past nine months is dangerous.”

“Nine months?”

Jeremy’s mouth twists. “Surrogates from Section were the first to be tested for so long.”

“Oh.”

Poor people, birthing children to save the wealthy people’s bodies, probably forced into the coma as part of their job.

He tugs me away from the glass, yet my mind’s still replaying the strange freeze-move-freeze motions of Ash City’s Tinsel Town.

“They make me sick,” Jeremy mutters as we pass a group of carefully rebuilt teenagers.

She’s bustier than any youth has a right be, and he’s got a dimple in an overly large jaw he’ll have to grow into.

It’s getting easier now, identifying fake hairlines and glowy skin sheens.

Jeremy’s sneer says he blames them.

But cancer patients are carted past every class, not just the wealthy. No one from any group has tried to stop people from being shipped off by the millions to modern-day concentration camps. Sending their own children without a fight.

No one’s completely innocent from letting this insanity reign. No one.

And Jeremy’s not exactly the worldly individual he claims to be, if he doesn’t accept the part we play. Yes, he’s a zealot who rails against the Authority. But no, he’s not seeing the entire picture. It’s easy to point fingers at the rich, and it’s easy for Anthem’s wealthier part to blame the lower sides for the tensions. But looking at what bizarre lengths they go to avoid life ? … all of that time asleep to live longer, and for what?

And whatever it is they are slowly turning into … it’s the stuff of nightmares.

The Authority has capitalized on all of our fears—the wealthy people’s of growing old and looking bad, and ours of being sick. But all of the generations have equally placed their faith into the Authority, which led to Anthem.

“If their lives are so perfect, Jeremy, they wouldn’t need all of this.”

“Hmm.”

He sees wealth and indulgence, and at first glance, anyone would. But a second glance shows me a sad and hopeless people—people who are afraid of death more than of thriving; people who don’t want to look in the mirror and see their true selves anymore.

Pretend Man had been right: no one’s enjoying this life; we’re all just trying to get through it.

There may be diamonds, but where is the art?

There may be good food, but where is the expression of one’s self?

We sold out long ago to the government for a cure—hook, line, and sinker. Slaves are rarely enslaved in one day.

“Where are we going?”

Jeremy turns down an empty alleyway, “You’ll see,” and he has that serious expression again, the one that makes me worry about my choice in following.

Wherever we’re headed, he’s not exactly thrilled.

Follow a boy to my doom? A few months ago, that would have been impossible.

We enter a more industrial area on the north side of Ash City, where smoke plumes the air in an ominous black blanket that hangs low. Factory after factory we pass, until we’re in front of an installation that seems almost militant.

The area’s a ghost town, but with walls as thick as these, someone must be inside. Many someones.

Jeremy helps me through a manhole and into a tunnel. I’m able to stand upright, but he has to tip his head at an odd angle as we walk down the drain pipe.

When we get to the other side, he helps me back out and re-covers the hole.

Jeremy moves stealthily, leading me to the windows of a warehouse.

Once I’ve gotten my arms hooked and propped to hoist myself up high enough, my brain tries to accept what it sees over the ledge.

Without his telling me, I know what’s happening: the purge. Women and men strung up, attached to machines. They’re suspended by hooks, and from the looks on their faces, all of them are in unending agony.

Even after turning away and clumsily falling off the shelves to put my hands to my knees and focus on my breathing, I still picture mouths and faces, white eyes unseeing as sweat drips in steady streams down their naked bodies. The machines cycle red from them, then back into IV ports implanted into their chests.

They’re filtering out their blood, but why? I’m unable to find my voice to ask. It’s like something out of science fiction, and although the horror of the Authority has always been apparent, this brings it to an entirely new level.

They’ve been making an army out of citizens. For what? And why so many?

Jeremy’s expression is anxiety mixed with anger while he gazes through the window. Wide purple eyes jump from person to person, from machine to machine, with different reactions—memories, no doubt. I wonder if he’s worried he’ll be snagged at any moment and forced to do it all over again. He must be reliving the pain; his face has drained of color and sweat has popped out on his brow. His hands are shaking.

I duck down when a guard strolls in our direction. Jeremy’s feet stay rooted, like he can’t tear himself away from the scene.

“Jeremy,” I say in a loud whisper, yanking his hand. “Get down!”

We run, bent over, along the side of the warehouse and behind some large trucks, where we hide between tarp-covered boxes.

Sitting down, face tight, Jeremy leans back against the wheel of the nearest truck. But I’m busy staring at the strange creases in the giant wall until it occurs to me—

“A gate.”

“To the outside,” Jeremy says, confirming my suspicions.

Beyond it lies the rest of America—abandoned wilds of what was once our great nation. Home is so close. That they’d dare put a weakness into the epic walls of Anthem City seems somehow important.

The gate begins to move, rolling aside, squealing and scraping open. We stay hidden as six guards bring along six people, all of whom drag their steps toward the giant metal slab. Each one stares at the ground and walks fairly dead on his feet.

“Rejects,” Jeremy supplies.

Two are scarred and bloody, like they’d crawled through razor wire.

I covertly search Jeremy’s shirt, feeling like he’s a stranger after seeing something of his past. Does he have scars? Have I ever seen him in anything but long sleeves?

The six are marched through the gate.

“Where are they going?”

“They lead them through three gates,” he answers, “then the rejects are left outside.”

“What? How do they defend themselves…?”

But the answer’s obvious.

“So. How do you get them back?” I ask.

And Jeremy shakes his head like it’s obvious. “March them right back inside.”

“How?”

A smile flirts with his mouth as the ghost of his past slowly leaves his eyes.

The gate begins to close behind them.

Then, we wait.

My patience proves too thin, because after only a few minutes, I’m begging Jeremy to tell me the plan. He patiently sits back and crosses his legs, ignoring me. With his eyes closed, as if to take a nap, he’s perfectly comfortable, while I’m on the tip of my toes, watching the gate like a hawk.

Forever later, it opens again. The six guards come back through and turn in another direction.

Then, another six come through, and they turn toward the truck where we’re hidden.

Twelve?

“Jeremy!”

“What?”

“The guards are coming!”

“Oh, what will we do?” And he grins. Has Jeremy gone martyr on me again? Only this time, he’s brought a silly girl with him.

The guards approach, but before we can run, one of them grabs Jeremy’s arm, tugging him up from the ground, and—

They hug…?

“Glad you made it.”

The guards reach up for their helmets. The one with Jeremy pulls it off to reveal a long black braid—a young woman … and she’s familiar…. Then, I remember. At the black market, she’d gotten the spider tattoo.

Her expression is a surprised look at seeing me, too. “What’s she doing here, Writer?”

Jeremy shrugs and shakes hands with another guard, who pats his shoulder.

He pauses, then motions to me and back to this young woman. “Crystal, meet Liza. Liza, this is Crystal, leader of the uprising.”

The rest thud their chests and say together, “Against all Authority.”

My eyes widen. So these are the Skulls, in the flesh.

Crystal watches me like the spider she has somewhere underneath her clothes. “And why is she here?”

At the same time, I’m asking Jeremy, “I thought you were the leader.”

He chuckles, saying to me, “That’s what we need the Authority to think.”

Crystal crosses her arms, clears her throat, one eyebrow raised.

Jeremy turns serious. “Don’t worry, Crystal. She’s as patriot as they come.”

Crystal tilts her head toward him in a familiar way, and my interest peaks. “Then why does she talk like that? She doesn’t even sound American. You know the UG has spies everywhere. Jer, we can’t risk it. Not now.” She moves in and hisses, “We’ve come so close!”

Jer
…?

Jeremy’s fondness for her softens his features, but he speaks to me. “Crystal’s always been the leader, and I’m simply the voice.”

She sniffs. “We started this together.”

Jeremy ignores her. “We agreed that after I died, it would seem like the group was in disarray, when in reality, Crystal here has organized the greatest stance this dictatorship has ever seen. She’s been culling those who’ve been purged since … when was it, Crys? Two years?”

Her gaze shifts to me, then back, like she can’t take her eyes off of Jeremy. “We began the real work
together
. But then he went off to die on us.”

They’ve sunk into their own little world as Jeremy leans closer to her. “It was always the plan, Crys. You know that.”

“Not mine,” she says softly, making me feel like they should be alone.

“Our country before ourselves,” he replies, equally as soft. “Besides, Liza’s the reason I’m still here. She saved me.”

Crystal blinks at him in confusion before she pushes past to tower over me like the tall and stately thing she is.

Her mouth pulls tight after she looks me over. “Is it true what he says?”

“Yes,” I reply. Then, more loudly, “Yes.”

Crystal’s eyes close, yet not quick enough to hide the flash of pain inside the darkness. When they open again, they’re dull like before. “Then I—
we—
owe you a debt of gratitude. Whatever you want, name it, and it’s yours. He may have been all for killing himself off for our revolution, but we’ve needed him now more than ever, so … thank you.”

Her last words are a mere breath from broken.

My throat tightens as feelings emerge. Somehow she’s conveyed undying love for someone so deep and dark and unending … yet … she holds no hatred for me. She’s let him go. If you love something …

As gracious as I can, I try to convey back an understanding that words could never cover with a nod, meeting her eyes and willing my own feelings to be heard.

As to her offer, a million things go through my mind. False humility, and a sense of irony, too. But then something blips ahead of these, something larger than myself. “I’ve now met two leaders of small armies, and I feel like you both do yourselves a disservice by not working together. Why not join forces with Kiniva’s group?”