Gods of Anthem (8 page)

Pain tolerance is
the only thing I’ve ever had tested in C wing. They begin by checking my bone density with this thing that closes onto my arms and legs until something breaks. Don’t worry, they say, they have a way to fix it.

On lucky days, I get to have them actually chip at the bone, right where I can see the metallic white hidden inside the folds of muscle, still wet with blood.

You’d think with us being soldiers, we’d defect. But the Underground controls two things: one is the mind, and the other is time.

The Authority won the Americas by default, sure. But despite their firm hold on Anthem, it’s anybody’s game right now. They’d used the Underground as their scapegoat; the UG had made zombies, yes, and it was their fault that these projects were loosed upon the world, but what the Authority didn’t admit was the two had been inseparable by then; a snake eating its tail. Ripping them apart had only caused more damage.

And now, we wait, across the water, homesick and not sure when we’ll return. The Underground had blown out the bridges upon arrival so that our ships could use the canals and dock right up against the buildings. It’s half-frozen, but they have boats to break the ice, and so the sound is a constant cracking like giant cubes in a glass.

The UG is gearing up to fight for Anthem City, the last standing city. Here, there is only one base and one lab. But there, they’ve rebuilt an actual place to make a life. UG has the greater weapons this time, and the zeal, but more than that, they now have us.

And they’ve had the time to tame their largest enemy, too. No, not the Authority. The clock itself. Control the laws of the planet, control everything.

As much as I want to admonish the UG for this desire to turn back time, I understand it, too. I have my own reasons for them to do it; I’ve made so many mistakes. Best of all, though, I wouldn’t be plagued by this dark intruder within.

I’d change that now, if I could. Hide from both sides until things blew over. But regrets are about as good as dreams in this new life.

Time … it’s better than gold these days.

In rare moments of self-torture, I’ll fixate on a certain point in my past, then follow that line straight to an alternate ending. That first grade class with Miss Patterson, for example, when I’d met Daisy, ’cause she was kicking my chair. She’d just wanted someone to notice her patent leather shoes, the type of thing her parents could rarely afford.

I’d spun around and yelled at her.

And now her wilted expression won’t leave my mind.

But Daisy had been resilient. She’d bugged me up until our teen years, and when I’d toyed with her affections, used them when I was lonely, she’d never seemed to mind. I did it not ‘cause I truly appreciated what she’d given so openly, so sweetly.

I’d told her she wasn’t good enough, that I’d never marry some small-town girl with nothing but babies on the brain. I had the idea in my head that someone more sophisticated waited for me elsewhere. Someone with high heels and pinned-up hair, someone who drank wine from a bottle, not a box. Someone like my mother, who’d learned more than just agriculture and would prettily ask, “What’s cow tipping?” A girl who didn’t use cuss words like Daisy did whenever her mom wasn’t around.

Daisy had always had dirty feet from running around barefoot, and I’d let a silly thing like that bother me. I’d let a girl with the most beautiful auburn hair, gorgeously tanned skin from swimming naked in my pond, get away. And that’s the reason I rarely feel sorry for myself, even now, when the pain is making me pass out.

I barely flinch when they shove a needle into my spine—again.

I cough and gag just once when they make me swallow another giant pill.

My eyes water, but it’s not ’cause of the testing.

When a girl as pretty as Daisy loves you right off, you can’t imagine how quick you start to look further, for better.

The nurse says something now, but my eyes are blurry and my head’s throbbing.

Today’s testing is like a thousand angry hornets stinging my body.

“Can you feel this, Hatter?”

Of course I feel that
…
you’
ve just cut me deep enough to scar.

I’m ignoring her question, trying to focus on my memories.

I relax into the darkness that beckons.

“I’m sorry, Daisy,” I whisper.

“What?” says the nurse. “Hatter, can you hear me?”

Tears stream down my face, and I sink further into the darkness. Daisy’s sweet face is there, turned up, while she’s laid out on the ground for her skin to be kissed by the old yellow sun.

A
throat clears, waking me.

Narrowed brown eyes watch me impassively. They’re strained at their edges from tightly bunned hair. I notice she’s got heels on and one of those fancy pins the big-wig scientists wear.

Today must be special. I’m trying not to puke on her.

Her voice cracks like a whip. “Private Hatter, have you been taking your medication?”

I nod, trying to sit up.

“Sleep?”

I shrug. They know none of us Specials get much.

Tight-lipped, she marks something down. She’s pretty, in a city kind of way. Probably gorgeous to some. But now that I’ve lived a hundred lives in only one year, I don’t feel that tug of attraction anymore. Not for women like her.

The scientist nods to a nurse who’s listening to my heart, while she continues to take more notes.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

She frowns at her pad and ignores me. I’m not a person, I’m a specimen. Another failed experiment.

“Failed” isn’t the right word. We’re like one big puzzle, each piece a picture we can’t quite see alone. The UG’s goal is to create some kind of unicorn among us—a super being—and we all play a part in adding to the equation. But I just want to shake them and ask if they’ve looked around lately at the damage they’re causing. I can see it in their eyes, though; we’re merely practice runs for something bigger, something more, and that’s all they care about.

A doctor comes forward with the electrodes and sticks them to my chest. He’s a tad more interested in me, being that his job is to keep us alive. Other than my weary sigh, his white coat swishing is the only sound as he fixes them to a machine while the scientist waits impatiently.

I try not to get anxious, but I do. No matter how many times I smell my own skin burning, it never seems less terrifying.

The woman watches me coldly as they turn up the dial. My eyes find hers and lock on to focus. It’s not like I know her name or the UG scientists wear name tags. Sweat forms on my brow as the first surge tingles through my nerves, and although I fight it, shaking and gritting my teeth, the scream rips through my throat only after a minute or so.

She doesn’t ask for them to stop, and she never takes her eyes from me as they force charges through my chest until I can’t bear it any longer and fall out of the bed, hitting the cold floor like a fish out of water. I suck in the air, and noises come back out that sound something like begging. I ignore that part.

Then, that smell hits me in the back of the throat like it always does: flesh cooking.

They turn the dial back down while I move to sit up, hunched over, huffing in the silent, sanitary room.

Her heels click closer to where I sit on the floor, but I don’t look up.

“Private Hatter. I don’t believe you’ve been taking the medication as prescribed. You went half as long as last time. Do I need to speak with your superiors?”

It takes me three tries to force the words out. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. I think we need a trial in transition, what do you say?”

I lean over a bucket to empty my stomach.

“Bring the girl,” the scientist says, and I tense.

“Who?” I ask through coughs.

But I’m guessing already who they mean.

“No,” I whisper. “Please.”

She sneers in disgust and clicks quickly from the room, tossing over her shoulder, “Let’s see what this one’s made of.”

What I wouldn’t give to go back in time. I’d kiss Daisy’s bare feet right now, if I could.

Tonight, we’re on
the city side, the remnants of it, anyway. Gothenburg. Frigid air punches my gut, but my body equalizes. A neat side effect from the changes they’ve made. Shadows stretch long beneath the empty buildings, all relics now. A fountain-style statue of Poseidon trickles in the square’s center, and moonlight shines like round diamonds against the coins at the bottom. Who’s maintaining it, and why?

The frozen deity holds a fish in one hand and a conch shell in the other, loftily accepting the displayed worship from tiny mermaids who spew water from their mouths.

I touch wetness near my temple that has nothing to do with the fountain. “Don’t make me do this, Joelle.”

My opponent appears on the ledge and tightrope walks the rim to match my height. Unconcerned, Joelle balances lithely on her toes, ready for another strike. Her aim will no doubt be on-point again.

Blood flows down onto my cheek and follows the grooves of my face until it fills the corner of my lip. I grimace at its coppery taste before I spit it at her in repayment. The spittle effectively carries the red, dotting her clothing and her feline face. Poseidon watches the exchange with an expression of boredom.

Shock registers on her pointed features before anger pulls her black eyes into slits amid the spots.

Joelle steps down to circle me, the game now set firmly in motion by my gross reaction. She arches her back, while her hands grip invisible adversaries.

“Come on, Tommy.”

The fade of my usual rigid control is shown in my deepening voice. “It’s not a game, Joelle. He’s not a toy.”

She springs closer, quick enough to make lightning jealous. I dodge a swipe for my throat, but a tell-tale sting on my skin has me shaking my head that’s still attached … for now.

I try to puff up, use my bulk as intimidation. Already I feel myself growing, stretching, as my mind entices me to change. It begs to be released. Joelle’s slight figure dances around me in a playful but deadly fashion.

She laughs, and her chiming notes bounce on imaginary acoustics. I search the emptiness when she disappears, leaving only an echo of laughter—a childlike tinkle both far away and close. Even with my knowledge of her tricks, I feel chillingly drawn into the charming, mesmerizing decoy that changes to a throaty chuckle. This laugh tempts me in ways only a sick and delusional man would be lured. The crawling of my skin has nothing to do with the coldness of the air.