Jeremy's the only guy who's ever treated you like a person, not a thing to be used. He's a breath of fresh air in a lifetime of Jimmys. He's soft-spoken, and actually talks to you. He wants to know what you think about things. You like that. Sure, he's boring now, but you've been together in secret for two years now - as much as his isolationist tendencies might annoy you now, you can't just easily throw away two years of a secret relationship.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," you say quietly.

Jeremy turns and looks at you. "What?"

"Oh my God, Jeremy, not sex. The words. I want to be vulnerable to you. We've kept these walls up for two years. Let me in a little."

He stares at you, eyes searching. The silence stretches.

"Sorry, sorry, I know-"

"No. It's fine. I'll show you. Just one though."

You freeze. You hadn't actually thought he would, but here you are. Your heart pounds as he stands up and starts moving around the room, retrieving scraps of paper from various places. Inside a book. Under the mattress. The inside of the closet door. You realize he's torn his words into fragments, to prevent someone like you from sneaking in and seeing them.

Once the scraps are assembled, you see the word:



It's the same as Sasha's. Your heart beats furiously on the inside of your chest. Just like that, you know Jeremy Lantern. And Jeremy Lantern is a thirteen.

You can't stop yourself, and in retrospect, you're not quite sure of the steps that led you from looking at Jeremy's word to kissing him, hard.

~

You go to class the next day and no one knows. It's a secret treasure. You sit in the back row and think: Jeremy Lantern is a thirteen. You know yours too - Once you told Jeremy about Vartix, he confirmed you're a 220. You've thought about his set before and decided he was probably a ninety-four. His behavior matched up almost perfectly and you'd watched him pretty carefully. But now you know different. Ninety-four is a cover. He's a thirteen. And now he knows you just as well as you know him.

~

After classes, you decide to get him a slushie. He'll be studying all afternoon and have no time for you; you know that. You won't bother him and won't expect anything to be different. But you'll get him a slushie.

On the way out, you notice Eliot's door is open. You hesitate. You haven't seen him for months, have been looking forward to his next visit, but right now you should probably avoid him. Because maybe Eliot can tell that you've been... intimate with another student. But then he comes out of his office and it's too late. "Hey!" you say. "Busy? You look busy."

"Yes. Leaving. But you can walk with me."

"Okay." You fall into step. You walk in silence. You transition from being worried that Eliot might figure it out to being disappointed that he hasn't. "How's life?"

"How's life?"

"Yes."

"Life's good."

"Good." You pass a group of boys loitering with intent, who straighten and shift. Eliot is well respected here. It's widely believed that he teaches so rarely because he's usually required to be away doing mysterious and badass things. "I was thinking about my name. My poet name, I mean, when I graduate. What sort of options do I have? Can I be Dante?"

"You can't be Dante."

"Aw, come on."

"We already have a Dante."

"Bah."

"Also, graduates aren't given the names of world-renowned poets," says Eliot. "You'll be someone you've never heard of."

"Is there a list I can choose from?"

"No."

"You guys are hard-asses." You reach the front door and descend the steps. "Welp, see you around."

He pauses. "You're happier."

"What?"

"You seem happy."

You shrug. "It's a beautiful day, Eliot, what do you want me to say?" He doesn't answer. "You should get out more," you say. You walk away. He's going to call you back; you can feel it. He'll know everything. But he doesn't, and your tension eases, and by the time you reach the gate, you're humming.

~

You purchase two slushies and almost get hit by a car running across the road while carrying them back. You balance them in the crook of your arm and knock on Jeremy's door. When he calls out, you push the door open with your hip. "Refreshment!"

He looks at the slushies. He's not as happy as you hoped.

"Thank you, Elise," you say.

"Thanks."

You deposit the slushie on his desk and lean your butt against the wall. You'd intended to give him the drink and go, but now you don't want to. "How's the studying going?"

"Slowly."

You nod. "I'll leave you to it."

"Thanks."

"Unless you want a study break." You raise your eyebrows.

"That can't happen again."

"What can't happen?"

"You know what." His voice drops. "We shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have."

"Well, I forgive you." You try to keep it light, but your heart is sinking through your stomach. You'd seen this coming, hadn't you? You practically provoked it. But now you feel sick.

"If they knew, I'd be expelled."

"We both would."

"Yes, but..." He taps the books lightly with his fingers. "This is my final exam. I can't fuck this up."

You stare at him.

"You understand, right? I can't see you anymore. You're a distraction. This is more important. I'm sorry."

"Are you," you say. The freezing condensation of your slushie in your hand seems to ice up your veins.

"I think you're a great person-"

Oh, fuck that. What do you do?

"Before and during the exams, sure, I'll leave you alone. You won't see me at all. I won't bring you slushies, won't say anything to you, won't be a distraction. If you want, I can even wait until I graduate myself to so much as say hello to you. And you know I'll graduate, even if you don't.

But if you mean more than that, if you want me out of your life in all capacities, even after I graduate, not even as friends, not even as pen pals; all you have to do is look me in the eye and say three words, and then tell me to stop loving you. If you can't do that, then I was right; you're a person I want in my life, somehow, and I'll figure something out. But if you can do that, then I was wrong about you in the first place, and I'd be better off without you."

Jeremy sighs. "Elise... using the words is against the rules too. You are better off without me. If you hope to get anywhere in the organization, we can't be attached. It's dangerous for both of us. Just... get out, please. I don't want to see you anymore."

You slam the door on the way out.

~

You have soccer and are in no mood for it. You stand rooted in the defensive half of the field and don't chase. Sasha, on the opposing team, concentrates her attacks on your wing to capitalize on your apathy. Once she runs past while you just stand there, and after she scores, she ruffles you hair.

The next time Sasha pounds towards you, the ball bobbling along in front of you, you decide to put Sasha on the ground. You move to intercept and Sasha's face hardens in a way that tells you to expect the shoulders. A word bubbles to your mind, one of the attention words. Cosugar. That's the word. It'd be enough to kick Sasha in the brain just long enough for you to knock her flat, and you'll use it because you had not used it on Jeremy, even though you could have. Cosugar, bitch. Your head is full of blood. Eat MY shoulders.

You and Sasha collide. By the time you get up, Sasha is jogging back to her hald, doing the fist pump. "Fuuuck," you say, and Sasha laughs.

~

You have to get away for a while, so instead of changing you head for the school gate. You're almost there when you hear footsteps. Jeremy is running after you. "El! Wait!" You don't want to, but some small, stupid part of you thinks maybe he changed his mind. He catches you, breathing fast. He's showered, put on a fresh shirt. His cheeks are pink. "Let's not end things this way."

"What?"

We've been friends for two years. I don't-"

"Gah," you say, as soon as you hear the word friends. You walk.

He trots beside you. "You can't tell anyone." You don't answer. "They will expel you. They've done it before. They'll send you fucking home."

You don't know why you say what you do. You're just so upset with him, the fact he clearly doesn't trust you even after all you've been through, it's hard to think. You just open your mouth and words come out. "Maybe you made me do it. Maybe you took advantage of me, with your words."

He stops. When you reach the gate, he yells, "How dare you!" You flinch, because there's fury in his voice. You keep walking. You're obviously not going to accuse him of anything, can't he tell that? You just want him to feel something. "Come back! Come back here!" You leave school grounds and walk to the other side of the road. You turn to see Jeremy stranded outside the gates, his face red. "You say nothing!"

You say nothing. He steps toward you. You're suddenly reminded of Jimmy back in San Francisco: how he'd been funny and kind, until you pushed him too far. "Stop," you say. Jeremy knows you. He knows your set. He's about to graduate, and he can make you do whatever he wants. "I'm sorry! I won't tell!" He runs at you, his face a rictus of rage. His lips start moving as he runs, forming words.

What do you do?

As Jeremy runs into the street, you quickly shut your eyes and cover your ears with your hands. "Jeremy-"

Before you can get it out, you hear the muffled sound of screeching tires through your hands. Your eyes flash open just in time to see a car sweep Jeremy away. You shriek and can't hear yourself over the horns.

~

You want to go to the hospital but they won't let you. You have to stay in the sitting room, the same place Jane had interviewed you when you first arrived, curled up in the same armchair.

Finally, Eliot comes in, wearing a long coat. You open your mouth to ask about Jeremy but you can see the answer on his face. You cover your face with your hands and cry.

"Tell me what happened."

You shake your head, not looking up. He crosses the rug and lifts your chin. "No," you say, and try to cover your ears. He pulls away your hands and speaks and your mind goes away. When you return to yourself, he is sitting in the chair across the rug, his eyes dark. You close your mouth and swallow. Your throat feels sore.

"Your time here is over," he says.

"Please don't send me away. Please."

He stands. You begin to cry again, but there's no pity in his eyes. He leaves.



PART TWO



The airplane climbs and you wait for the chopper to shoot at you, or crash into you, or explode for no reason, who knows. But minutes pass with nothing but the drone of the engines and the night spreading out ahead. "Are we clear?" you ask Eliot, and Eliot says nothing, but you think you are. Exhaustion dumps into you all at once: Once minute you're fearing for your life, the next you want to sleep. "I'm going to sit down, okay?" You make your way down the plane. You reach seats and collapse into one. You should buckle up. But the buckles are so far away.

You open your eyes to daylight. The world bumps and shakes. You clutch at the armrests, your head full of half-remembered dreams. A girl with bad words. A kangaroo. The engines are wailing. Beyond the round windows you see snow and wooden fence posts and these seem very close and moving too fast. The note of the engines change and you begin to shed speed. The world slows and stops. Eliot emerges from the cockpit, flips open a panel on the fuselage and begins to crank the door.

"Where are we?"

Eliot keeps cranking. The door becomes a series of steps and he trots down them.

You get to your feet. You're not thrilled about heading out into the snow again, but you do it. Eliot stands at the side of the road, urinating. You look around. The blacktop stretches out as far as you can see. Power lines march alongside. There's nothing else.

"Nice landing," you say. You get nothing from Eliot but a steady stream of urine. "Where are we?"

Eliot zips and walks a short distance down the road. You go after him. The plane is very modern, you notice, sleek and clean with upturned wings. It's surprisingly large, too, although maybe that's because it's on a road, where it doesn't belong.

You stop beside Eliot. You stuff your hands into your pockets. Your breath fogs. "What now?"

"Next car that comes along, I'm catching a ride. Then I'm going to get some breakfast. Bacon, ideally. Lots of bacon."

You shake snow from your boots. "Okay."

"That's me, though. You can do whatever you like."

You squint. "Say what?"

"We're done. This is it. You go your way, I go mine."

"What?"

"It's over."

"But the poets. Woolf... does she still want to kill me?"

"Oh, yes."

"So we have to hide. Go to more of your friends."

"There are no more friends."

You stare. "No?"

"No."

"You mean your entire, what, resistance or whatever, got wiped out yesterday? Everyone?"

"Yes."

"You don't have a cell in another city or-"

"No."

"Jesus." You exhale. "Then we need to stick together."

"Hmm," Eliot says.

"She's coming after you, too, right? Woolf wants you dead."

"Yes."

"So?"

"So from your point of view, I'm a guy who can keep you alive. But from my point of view, you're a useless sack of shit. You don't help me at all."

"You said I was important! You have to find out why I'm immune! To the words!"

"That was before," Eliot says. "Circumstances changed."

"I'm coming with you," you say. "Wherever you're going, I'm coming."

"No, you're not."

"You can't stop me. Your word voodoo, it doesn't work on me. Right? So how do you think you're going to-"

Eliot produces a pistol. He doesn't seem to pull it from anywhere. He just suddenly has it.

Your eyes sting.

"See?" Eliot puts away the gun. "There are all kinds of persuasion." He gazes at the horizon again.

Your breath steams. "Okay. Okay." Anger builds inside you and you don't know what to do with it. "Fine. That's how it is?" You walk back to the place. You don't know what you're doing. But you can do it somewhere warm. You can do that. Halfway up the steps, you yell, "What happened in Broken Hill? Woolf killed everyone, right?" Eliot doesn't move. "Yeah! So you go hide out while she does what she likes to the rest of us! You do that!" You shiver. You stomp up the steps.

~

You stand on the road, scanning the horizon. Your coat flaps around your legs. Nick will pop back out of that plane in about five minutes, by your estimation. That will be the point at which his fear of being abandoned surpasses his physiological desire for warmth. It will be useful if a car appears before then. That way, you can compromise the driver and be on your way without ever seeing Nick again.

The wind stings your cheeks. You can't resist the comparison any longer: the last time you stood like this, waiting and watching to see what comes over the horizon, carrying a gun and hoping not to need it. A little over a year ago. You had been outside Broken Hill.

~

You put the air-conditioning on full, but it makes no difference: The sun blasts through the windshield, broiling you inside your shirt. The kid you collected from the airport, Campbell, squirms and twists his tie and hangs it over the back of the seat. "The sun looks bigger," he says. "Can it actually be bigger?"

"It's the ozone," you say. "There's a hole."

"Do you get used to it?"

"Not yet."

"When I left DC, it was twelve degrees," says the kid. "Twelve." He glances at you. "You miss DC?"

"I visit."

"Yeah, but..." The kid looks out the window at the blasted soil rolling by. "How long have you been out here, in total? Three months?"

"Seven."

"Yeah." The kid nods. "Of course. Well, after this, you can go home." He smiles.

You look at him. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one. Why?"

"How much do you know about what you're doing?"

"Everything." The kid laughs. "Eliot, I'm fully briefed. I've spent six weeks in intensive prep. I was selected for my talents. I know what I'm doing."

You say nothing.

"Four months ago, Virginia Woolf releases a bareword in Broken Hill, Australia, population eighteen thousand. Now population zero. Official story, explosion in the ore refinery plant causing a catastrophic toxic leak. Town is fenced off at a radius of five miles. Scary signs promise death to all who enter. The funny part is the signs don't lie. We send people in, they don't come out. Hence the theory that the word is still in there." He pulls his shirt out of his pants and flaps air. "Crazy idea, isn't it? That a word can persist. Hang in the air, like an echo."

"It can't."

"What, then? Because something bad is in there, and it ain't a toxic leak."

You almost don't say it. "Maybe Woolf."

"Mmm," says the kid. "Yeah, nobody really thinks that's plausible, Eliot. We're all pretty sure Woolf's dead." He taps idly on the window. "We have satellite on that town. We've imaged it a hundred different ways. Nothing moves."

You drive in silence.

Any other conversation you feel needs having before you arrive at Broken Hill?

You would, but there's a reason the kid's the one going in and not you. "Why are you the one they're sending in?"

"I'm the best there is, defensively," says the kid. "I mean, not to boast. But that's why I'm here. I was selected because I can't be compromised. There's not going to be a problem."

"You realize you're betting your life on that."

"I realize it."

You glance at him. Twenty-one, you think. "Who chose you? Thoreau?"

"I have had the honor of speaking with Thoreau, yes."

"You don't have to do this."

The kid looks at you. Give me a sign, you think, and we'll blow right by Broken Hill, Campbell, keep going until we reach an airport. By sundown we'll be a country away. You ever think about quitting, Campbell? Just walking away? And let me ask you something else: have you noticed there's something wrong with Thoreau? Like something dead? Notice that?

The kid turns away. "You've been in the desert too long, Eliot."

You watch the endless road. "You're right about that," you say.

~

You drive up to the chain-link fence and kill the engine. You sit in silence, looking at the signs. CONTAMINATION. TOXIC. TRESPASS. DEATH. Skulls and thick red lines. The heat presses in like a hand. "They're words, aren't they?" says the kid. "Fear words." He unbuckles. "I need to get out of this car."

Outside is no cooler but at least the air is moving, stirring dust and sand. The road is blocked with a snarl of razor wire. To the left and right, the chain-link fence stretches away, signs flapping every few hundred feet. A few scrubby bushes protrude from the red soil. This continues as far as you can see.

You have wire cutters in the trunk, just in case, but nothing has changed since last time: the wire loops across the road but isn't secured. It doesn't need to be. The kid is right: it's the words that keep people out. You drag the wire from the road.

The kid is trying to wrap his linen jacket around his head. "I have a hat in the back," you say. "Take that."

"I'm okay."

"Take the hat." You open the back door and retrieve the cap and a bottle of water.

"Fine. Thanks." The kid hams the cap on his head. The peak says THE THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER. You'd picked it up from a street vendor in Adelaide. "How do I look?"

(04-20-2015, 09:47 PM)Whimbrel Wrote: »Review safety procedures!

"You have a satellite phone?"

"Yep."

"Call me."

"It works. I checked at the airport. I'll call you when I get into town."

"Call me now."

The kid produces his phone and pokes at it. Your phone trills.

"Okay?" says the kid.

"You have a backup battery."

"I do."

"And your main is full?"

"It's fine."

"Is it full?"

"Look." The kid shows you the screen. "See the little battery? I know how to use a phone."

"Call me as soon as you can no longer see me clearly. Then keep the line open. If the call drops, keep trying me until you get through."

"Will do."

"What's your set?"

"What?"

"Is it ninety-three?"

The kid's face blanks. It's how they train them. The kid's thinking about something else: something happy, something sad, something traumatic; only he knows. It's supposed to make him unreadable, by adding noise to his facial expression.

"You're a ninety-three."

"Shit," says the kid. "You're not supposed to do that. Why'd you do that?"

"For your protection."

"It doesn't matter. I can't be compromised. You want to try me? Go ahead."

You consider it. You don't doubt that the kid is good. But he's probably done most of his work in a controlled environment. If you jump him, put a gun in his mouth, scream words, well, that's not the same.

"Don't worry about me," says the kid. "I'm good to go."

(04-20-2015, 10:58 PM)Mirdini Wrote: »Make sure your gun's operational. Last argument of kings and all that.

You palm your gun, checking the clip, testing the chamber. All is good."Don't take any risks. Anything looks wrong, don't investigate. Just walk away. We don't have to do everything today."

The kid adjusts his DOWN UNDER cap. He thinks you're crazy, of course. "Well, I'm going to do this."

You nod. "Good luck."

"Heh," says the kid. "Thanks." He steps around the razor wire and begins to walk up the road.

~

With distance, the kid's body shimmers in the heat haze rising out of the blacktop. Soon he's hard to make out at all, just another twisting current of air. You stand with a hand shielding your face from the sun, watching.

Your cell phone rings.

"Thanks for the cap," says the kid. "Glad I've got it now."

"You're welcome."

"I have seriously never been this hot."

"Can you see the town's outskirts?"

"Not yet."

"Should be close."

"Yeah, I know. I have the maps by heart."

You fall silent. The sun beats down on your head. You should retreat to the car. In a few minutes. You'll wait until the kid reaches the town.

(04-20-2015, 09:53 PM)Crowstone Wrote: »Tell us (each other) more about Woolf

"You used to teach her at the Academy. Virginia Woolf. That's what I heard. Is that true?" The kid is panting a little. "We have to spend an hour on the phone, Eliot; we may as well talk. Jesus." He blows air. "This is so ridiculously hot." You hear him take a swig from the water bottle.

"Yes, I taught Woolf."

"Did you see it coming? At all, I mean? Did you ever get the sense she might..."

"Might what?"

"Go ballistic," says the kid. "Kill a whole town. I don't mean to insult your observation skills, which are, clearly, very good. I just wonder how you can miss something like that. You know? It wasn't just you. It was everyone. We're supposed to know people."

"There's a risk in training anyone. In Woolf's case, her potential seemed to justify it." You shrug, although there's no one to see you. "We were wrong."

"I never met her. She'd left by the time I started." He coughs. "She'd been kicked out, I mean. Banished. Whatever. It's really dusty. The wind... I think I can see the refinery."

"Keep your eyes open."

The kid laughs, which turns into another cough. "Seriously, you're making me nervous for no reason. There's nobody in here."

You say nothing.

"Do you know what I do? In the organization? I'm in Digital. Web services. You know?"

"Not really."

"You should. This is where everything is going. Let me tell you about it. Bring you up
to speed."

"Fine," you say.

"Well, don’t humor me. I don’t care. I’m just offering you an inside look at what Thoreau himself has called, quote, the greatest attack vector since print, end quote."

"Fine."

"The organization is changing, Eliot. It’s not newspapers and TV anymore. That stuff
is old school. Obsolete. And you older guys, if you don’t watch out, you’ll be obsolete with it. You don’t want to be obsolete, do you?"

"No."

"No. So let me help you out." The kid pants for awhile. "The key to the Web is it’s interactive. That’s the difference. Online, someone visits your site, you can have a little poll there. It says, 'Hey, what do you think about the tax cuts?' And people click and set themselves. First advantage right there. You’re not just proselytizing, speaking into the void. You’re getting data back. But here’s the really clever part. Your site isn’t static. It’s dynamically generated. Do you know what that means?"

"No."

"It means the site looks different to different people. Let’s say you chose the poll option that said you’re in favor of tax cuts. Well there’s a cookie on your machine now, and when you look at the site again, the articles are about how the government is wasting your money. The site is dynamically selecting content based on what you want. I mean, not what you want. What will piss you off. What will engage your attention and reinforce your beliefs, make you trust the site. And if you
said you were against tax cuts, we’ll show you stories of Republicans blocking social
programs or whatever. It works every which way. Your site is made of mirrors, reflecting everyone’s thoughts back at them. That’s pretty great, right?"

"It’s great."

"And we haven’t even started talking about keywords. This is just the beginning. Third major advantage: People who use a site like this tend to ramp up their dependence on it. Suddenly all those other news sources, the ones that aren't framing every story in terms of the user's core beliefs, they start to seem confusing and strange. They start to seem biased, actually, which is kind of funny. So now you’ve got a user who not only trusts you, you’re his major source of information
on what’s happening in the world. Boom, you own that guy. You can tell him
whatever you like and no one’s contradicting you. He’s-" The kid sucks in breath. "Aw, shit."

"What is it?"

"I think I see a body."

"You didn't know there would be bodies?"

"I knew. Of course I knew. But knowing and seeing are two... aw, geez. That's disgusting."

"They've been in the sun for four months."

"Yeah. Clearly."

"Is it just bone or...?"

"It's mostly bone," says the kid. "That's the disgusting part." For a while you hear nothing but his breathing. "Yecch. They're all over."

"You were telling me about Digital."

"How do you think they died?" His voice sounds muffled, as if he's talking through his sleeve. "Did the bareword blow out their fucking brains? Like aneurysms? Because it doesn't look like the died from aneurysms."

"Why not?"

"They're in clumps. Like they dragged themselves into groups. Then died."

You're silent.

"So... yeah, Digital." The kid's voice wavers. "Fourth advantage. We can whisper. A problem with old media has always been that we can't control who's watching. There's self-selection - people don't tune in for shows that rub against their beliefs - but you still get people from the wrong set watching. And they think you're peddling bullshit, of course, because you are, and sometimes the make a big deal out of that, and it feeds back to the target set. Then you have message bleeding. In Digital, that problem goes away. You can say things to a user and no one else can hear, because it's dynamically generated for that user. The next user, the site looks different. End result, you get people from different sets and they agree on nothing, literally nothing, except the site is a great source of unbiased information." He takes a breath. "I'm passing houses. Flat, ugly houses."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Just hot."

"Take a rest if you need it."

"Why do you think they're in groups?"

"I don't know."

"You think they could be families? Like... they had time to find their loved ones?"

"Maybe."

"I don't think that's it. Something about the way... I don't know. But I don't think so." Something scrapes against the phone. "I need a drink."

"Rest."

The kid gulps water. "No. I want to get this done." Time passes. "So... that's Digital. Pretty great, huh?"

"It makes me wonder why we're bothering with anything else."

"Heh. Yeah. Well, we have a problem with unidentified users. Someone visits our site for the first time, and we have no idea who they are. We don't know what to show them. We can make guesses, based on where they are geographically, and the software they're using. But that's suboptimal. We're getting better. You know about social networking?"

"No."

"You are... you need to get into this stuff, Eliot. It's the future. Everyone's making pages for themselves. Imagine a hundred million people clicking polls and typing in their favorite TV shows and products and political leanings, day after day. It's the biggest data profile ever. And it's voluntary. That's the funny part. People resist a census, but give them a profile page and they'll spend all day telling you who they are. Which is... good... for us... obviously..."

"What is it?"

"There's a... ah, it's okay."

"What is it?"

"Gas station. Place is burned out. Cars all over. And one is... yeah, one is upside down. That's... uh... not bad, huh, Eliot? A word that can flip cars?" He laughs, the pitch high. "That's some pretty fucking impressive neurolinguistics, wouldn't you say?"

"Are there bodies?"

"Of course there are bodies! I'm fucking knee-deep in bodies! Just assume there are bodies unless I tell you otherwise!"

"Understood."

He pants. "I'm not knee-deep. I'm... sorry, I'm exaggerating. But there are a lot. A real lot." He swallows over and over. "How could there be so many? I mean, what did she do? How could she kill everyone? Fuck!" He pauses, breathing heavy. "I can see the hospital. It's just up the road. The road that's fucking full of bodies."

Any words of wisdom for Campbell here?

It's possible. There are some powerful words out there. Granted, you've never seen one work so well on this kind of scale. Words are usually targeted to individuals, not mass populations.

(04-21-2015, 07:37 PM)Whimbrel Wrote: »Take a break, Campbell. Get your composure back. You're feeling stressed (understandably) and in that atmosphere it'd be easier for someone to break past your defenses with something even more shocking. Say, something in the creepy hospital with all the bodies leading up to it. Come back to the car, we can discuss what you've seen so far and you can try to get further tomorrow.

"Take a break."

Heavy breathing.

"Campbell. You need to calm down. You can come back. You don't need to do this today."

The kid takes a shaky breath. "Yeah, I do, Eliot."

"It's not that important. Forget about Thoreau."

There's a snuffling sound. Eventually you identify it as laughter. "You have definitely been away too long, Eliot. 'Forget about Thoreau'. Jesus fucking Christ." He sucks air. "I'm fine. I'm calm. There's a lot of damage here. Cars on the sidewalk. I saw this on the satellite pictures, but up close it's... more real, I guess. On the computer they just looked badly parked. Like everyone was in a real hurry. But... they hit things. They're all... all somewhere for a reason." He swallows. "Almost at the hospital. Looks... smaller... than I expected, actually. Like a library. I can see the entrance to the ER. Ambulance out front. I mean a van. A paramedic van, up on the curb. Front of the ER's all glass, but I can't see inside." You hear the kid stop. "It's real dark in there. Or grimy or something." He hesitates. "I'm going around to the main entrance, okay?"

"Just take it easy."

"It's just, I don't think I need to mess with this black room if there's another way in."

"Agreed."

"Okay. I'm coming up on the main doors. Shit. I don't even know if this is better."

"Tell me what you see."

"Bodies. Desiccated bodies, piled against the glass. But I can see inside, at least. I'm at the doors. There's..."

"What?" You wait. "Campbell?"

"There's a sound."

"What kind of sound?"

"I don't know. Shut up a second; let me listen." Time passes. "Like a hum."

"A person?"

"No. Like a machine. Something electronic. But that can't be right. There's no power here. It's not that loud. I'm going to open the doors." There's a scraping. You hear the kid gagging. "Fucking hell."

"What is it?"

"The smell."

"Stop where you are."

"Okay. Okay, I've stopped."

"Look around. Tell me everything."

"Seats. Reception desk. Shit on the walls."

"Shit?"

"I mean stuff. Ads. Get your vaccinations. Eight out of ten mothers experience postnatal depression. When was your last prostate exam."

"What about the sound?"

"Oh. Yeah, that's flies. Ten billion flies."

"Stand there a minute."

"She's not here, Eliot. I told you. If there was anything bigger than a squirrel moving around in here, we'd know it."

"Rabbit. There are no squirrels in Australia."

"No..." The kid breaks out in laughter. "No squirrels? Are you shitting me?"

"No."

"Well maybe I'll fucking move here! It's starting to seem like fucking paradise!"

"Keep it together, Campbell."

The kid's breathing comes harsh and ragged. "You're right. You're right." He steadies. "I'm going in." There's a scrape. The ambient noise alters, thickening. "I'm inside."

"Tell me everything."

"There are lines on the floor. Colored lines. Man... well, I guess I'll follow the red one. For Emergency. There are so many bodies... it's hard to avoid them. Jesus fuck. I am never getting this smell off me." Shuffling. "Doors are propped open with bodies. I'm in a corridor. It's getting darker. The, ah... yeah, the lights don't work. Just confirming that. There's..."

"What?"

"There's a skull with an ax in it."

"An ax?"

"Yeah. A red ax. For fighting fires. I can see where someone pulled it out of the case. Someone broke the glass and took the ax out and buried it in this dude's head. Hey? Eliot?"

"Yes?"

"I'm taking the ax. Okay? I just... I'd feel better if I had it with me. So I'm going to put down the phone for a minute to pick up the ax."

"Okay."

The phone goes clunk. You hear the kid grunting, then a brief squeal. "You there?"

"I'm here."

"I got it." The kid laughs. "I just pulled a fucking ax out of a skull." He exhales. "I feel better. I feel kind of badass. Hey. I just had an idea. I'm going to take a picture of this shit, send it to you."

"On your phone?"

"Yeah."

"Can you do that without ending the call?"

"I don't... uh... not sure."

"Then don't do that."

"I'll send it and call you right back."

"Do not hang up the phone."

"Okay. Jesus. Okay, okay. Just an idea. I can see the doors to Emergency just ahead. Double doors. Lots of... oh. I just figured out what this black stuff on the walls is."

"Blood."

"Yeah. Lots and lots of blood." A pause. "Is that...? Yeah. That's them."

"Who?"

"An extraction team. I know these guys. I mean... I saw their video. You know these people in black suits Thoreau uses sometimes? The soldiers with the goggles? They're supposed to be screens against compromise."

"Yes."

"It's them. Some of them, anyway. They're not wearing their goggles. They... they're pretty messed up."

"How?"

"They're tangled. In each other. Their faces are black. Dried blood. They don't have any eyes. I don't know if... I don't know if that's decomposition or if... or what." His voice shakes. "They look like they went through a fucking shredder, Eliot." You realize the kid is crying.

"Campbell-"

"But they weren't poets. That's the difference. I'm the king of defense."

"Come back. You can report in what you've learned. Try again tomorrow."

"No. No."

"Thoreau can wait another-"

The kid's voice rises. "Eliot, you have no fucking idea what's required, okay? You've been in the fucking desert and you don't know. I am not telling Thoreau I got this far and left. That is not fucking happening, and if you had half a clue you wouldn't suggest it."

"Not all of us agree with Thoreau."

The kid sucks air for awhile. "I could have your head, Eliot. I could have your head on a plate for what you just said to me."

"I know that."

"Yeah. Yeah." Seconds pass. "Doors ahead. Closed double doors. Sign says Emergency."

"Campbell, please."

"I want to hold the ax in two hands. I'm going to wedge the phone under my ear." There's a scraping. His breath comes in gulps. "Hey, Eliot?"

"Yes?"

"I appreciate it. Saying that about Thoreau. That's good of you."

"Campbell, please stop." Command words rise in your mind. Weak, over the phone. Probably pointless.

"If anything goes wrong, I want you to tell Thoreau I was cool under pressure," says the kid. "I'm opening the..." There's a squeal of hinges.

"What do you see?"

The kid's breathing.

"Campbell? What do you see? Talk to me."

The phone barks into your ear. You jerk it away. By the time you bring it back, there's nothing but dead air. It hit the floor, you think; that was the noise. The kid dropped it.

You think you hear a faint squeak: the kid's shoes? "Campbell?" You say the kid's name again, and again, and again, and there's nothing.