The Revival (19 page)

THERE'S A SORT OF giant metal Ferris wheel that looks like it runs one of the elevators. It's big enough for three people to walk upward in an endless curved staircase, and others to help turn it using handholds on the rim of the big circle. The revolutions turn a gear that transmits friction to the elevator cables. It's not exactly efficient, but that's not a concern when you have slave labor, which the Uptowners did. Now it's abandoned, and the Uptowners made the mistake of leaving it intact.

I turn to Gamma, the lead survivor of the Ghosts.

“We're going to need you to power this.”

“Your wish is my command, Lord. You go up to battle demons in the clouds. It is fitting.”

“Look,” I say. “You're not a genie, and I'm not the Second Coming. If we lose up there…” I gesture vaguely toward the ceiling. “They're going to be after you. Understand? So you can't do this because I
said
so. You have to do this of your own free will.”

He looks at me, uncertain. Then, “Okay.”

“What's your name?” I say. “Your
real
name.”

Again a pause. “Edward.”

“Okay, Edward. Take it from me. Nobody and nothing else is the final authority except you. People are just people. We're all we've got to go on. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I don't know that the Ghosts will have enough energy to actually get the elevator up there. But then the girls we freed start grabbing ahold of the wheel, handhold or no.

“We'll get it done,” says Cowgirl. “Many hands, light work, that sort of shit. NP.”

I notice a vacuum of silence nearby and see Rab walking off.

Things are looking up.

As we finish gearing up, I go over to Donna.

“You okay?”

Of course I don't really mean that. I mean,
What just happened?

She just looks up and kisses me. “I love you,” she says.

“I love you.” Natural as breathing.

“Good,” she says. “Now let's go save the world again.”

IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE THEY'RE SO STUPID.

About half an hour ago, my bro Monster says he's watching the needle on the elevator dial and it's moving up. Really slowly, of course, because the damn elevator is heavy and there's only so much the hamster wheel can do to lift it. That means that there's plenty of time to prepare for them.

It's definitely not my dudes in the elevator—they would know better and signal ahead of time. It's got to be Jefferson and his assorted half-breeds, sexual deviants, and losers.

How do I know? It just makes sense. Because I realize now that not only am I God's favorite show, I am his favorite
person
. And he is shaping my triumph. Now is the part where I beat back the mutated hordes and put the crown on my own head.

It's all working out! The champagne is chilling, the nukes are warming up, and my enemies are literally delivering themselves to me in a box.

The only disappointment is that last part. It's a tiny bit of a bummer that it's going to be so easy to kill Jefferson, after all this time. I briefly toy with the idea of engineering some kind of final showdown, like we take them captive and walk them off the silver eagles one by one so I can watch them fall all the way to the ground and hear the screams. We could even record it to play back whenever we want later. Put it up on YouTube once we get Wi-Fi back.

But I decide to be reasonable. So we just set up the flamethrower in front of the elevator, ready to incinerate them the moment the doors open. It's straightforward, a little blunt, maybe, but it's got a certain style. Maybe we can put them out before they're totally gone. That could be fun. I tell my boys to get the fire extinguishers.

I have the flamethrower in my hands, a little tongue of fire licking upward from the spout, when I hear the
DING!
of the elevator finally arriving. I have to shush the bros, who have all gathered around to see what it'll be like. Monster and the boys have their guns ready in case Jefferson and the others escape the elevator while they're on fire, and try to hug us to death or something.

As soon as the doors are half open, I give it the juice, and a chameleon-tongue of flame leaps out and into the elevator. By the time the doors are totally open, the elevator is engulfed, an aquarium of fire.

But I don't hear any screams, which is a letdown.

Then, as the flames die down, leaving only a few scraps licking at the corners, I realize that there's nobody inside.

That's when the grenade skitters into the landing and bounces off the back wall. I jettison the flamethrower and hit the ground just as it explodes, splashing me with what's left of Monster.

Looking up, I see that about half my guys are down, dead or writhing, but the others are firing back toward the Downtowners, who tricked us, I realize, into paying attention to the elevator while they legged it up sixty-seven flights. We might have had somebody guarding the stairway, but everyone wanted to watch our enemies get set on fire. I guess that's the downside to enabling a culture of sadism. People lose focus.

Time for a quick assessment of the position. About half my men are down, but the rest, perhaps aware of the fact that they'll be fighting for their lives, are up and gunning. An unknown number of enemies, but they've just hiked sixty-seven floors, so they have to be pretty tired.

Somewhere out there, Jefferson.

The flamethrower is out of commission, the tank punctured by shrapnel. The football, however, seems to have made it through. I grab hold of the leather handle of the briefcase and crawl to a side door to the club kitchen, avoiding the trouble.

They've shut off the generator, so the kitchen is dark and the fridge is silent. Before anything else, I open the fridge and take out a bottle of Cristal. Smash it open on the counter edge. I realize that I've made a mistake. God just gave me the thumbs-down on the latest plot twist, like how could I just flambé my archenemy?

So while the sounds of battle ring and pound from outside, I raise the bottle and chug. It's still cold, and as the champagne slides down my throat, I think to myself—it's a moment of weakness, I admit—of how cool everything could have been, how awesome if only Jefferson and the rest of those losers hadn't gotten mixed up in my story.

What if it's actually Jefferson? What if it's his story? That would be so lame.

Then, as the buzz of the champagne sets in, I remember the crushed Adderall I still have in my back pocket. I hold the baggie right to my nose—no time to be delicate—and huff it all in one breath like a sob.

Then the Adderall hits and I get a surge of energy, triumphant and creative, and I feel much better.

The big guy still loves me. That's why I'm still alive.

Of course it's me. Of course.

Now I know what I have to do.

I AM NOT EXACTLY
INTO
FIGHTING,
but the fact that I am gay does not prevent me from kicking ass. As a matter of fact, I probably had to fight more than most kids. So when I see Chapel go down, my first instinct is not to run to him or to run away but to kill the guy who shot him. Which, you know, I do.

The rooms of this crazy old nightclub or whatever are filling up with smoke. I duck round a corner and fire into a mural wall, behind which I figure he's hiding. A moment later, I hear a groan, which is good enough for me. I lean over Chapel.

“Leg,” he says. I drag him to some cover. I undo the straps from my pack and make a tourniquet, cinch it tight.

“I'm fine. Go help the others.”

“Nope,” I say. “Not leaving you alone. Last time I did that, you disappeared on me.”

“I'm here to stay.”

I hold his hand to my cheek, then return to the fray.