The Burning World

  We pass the Agriculture building, a cluster of hothouses rising five stories high with hazy clouds of green visible through the translucent walls. A steady procession of workers pours out from the bottom floors, their backs bent under sacks of fresh vegetables. All this effort manages to supply about a third of the stadium’s food needs. A nice little organic supplement to the steady diet of Carbtein cubes. What will these people do when the old world’s leftovers run out? The medicine? The bullets? No one here knows how these things were made or has the resources to make them. The enclave works hard to build an illusion of self-sufficiency, but like all enclaves—and the cities and countries that preceded them—it relies on a thousand veins pumping lifeblood from the world outside. What happens when the heart finally stops?

  “I believe in hard truths,” Rosso says after a few blocks of silence. “But I have to confess I’m doubting my advice right now.”

  “Why?”

  We pass a block of foster homes and he looks up into the windows. Nearly half of them frame a child’s forlorn face, chins buried in folded arms, eyes scanning the streets for any hint that their lives might change. “I had a similar conversation with another young man not long ago.”

  My step falters and I briefly fall behind him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “He had a very different life with very different struggles, but he asked similar questions, and I gave him similar answers.” He drops his eyes to the ground, watches the steady procession of garbage passing under his feet. “He died soon after we talked, and I believe it was by choice.” A beer can. A bullet shell. A fruit too rotten to identify. “Perhaps you shouldn’t listen to me.”

  I feel a heavy stone in my stomach. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of Perry Kelvin. In all the joy and terror of my new life, it was easy to forget the life I hijacked to get here. The taste of his brain. The rush of his memories. His wry voice in my head as we guided each other forward, unlikely partners on an inner expedition.

  Rosso walks in silence, perhaps expecting a reply. As always, it’d be best for me to keep my mouth shut, but this is a good man living a pained life, and the knowledge I have might comfort him, no matter how horrifically I obtained it.

  “You meant a lot to Perry,” I tell him. “So did your advice.”

  He glances back at me.

  “He was on a path. You almost swayed him. It was just . . . too late.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Rosso says, looking straight ahead. “I can believe Julie talked about him a little . . . but not that much.”

  “I . . . read his book,” I say, searching for a way around the full truth. “The one he was writing before he died.”

  “I thought you can’t read.”

  “I . . . skimmed?”

  Rosso walks for a while, then shakes his head. “I didn’t know he was writing a book. That’s even sadder.”

  “Sadder?”

  “To give up in the middle of such an undertaking. To leave so many things unfinished . . .” His voice trembles and trails off.

  So much for comfort. I know there’s no explaining what I’m going to say next, but now that I’ve stepped to the edge, I might as well jump off.

  “He did finish it. In a way. He wrote his best work . . . posthumously.”

  Rosso’s stride stalls in mid-step, then resumes.

  “He’s not gone,” I hear myself say, but the words are unpremeditated; they appear on my tongue without passing through my brain. “His life didn’t disappear when it ended. It will always exist.”

  Rosso stops. He turns. If he asks what I mean, I won’t be able to answer. But he just looks at me, and I have a sense that somehow, he understands what I’m saying better than I do. He blinks a little moisture out of his eyes. He nods almost imperceptibly. Then he turns around, and we walk to the gate.

  • • •

  This was once Citi Stadium’s lobby, lined with snack booths and sports memorabilia, pennants and jerseys hanging from the rafters, but all traces of the stadium’s wild youth were scrubbed out long ago. The walls are now lined with ammunition crates, turret guns poke through the ticket slots in the bulletproof will-call windows, and the polite little automatic doors have been replaced with steel slabs that open for nearly no one. The stadium is all grown up.

  The soldiers are assembled in front of the gate, waiting for Rosso, and they exchange confused glances when they see me trailing behind him. Rosso nods to Ted; Ted lifts the latch and heaves against the doors until they slide open on their tracks with a rumble and squeal. I follow Rosso through the opening, trying to ignore the soldiers’ stares.

  Outside, there is no shelter from the heat. The sun is on its way down but even its indirect rays are brutal, and the air rises from the asphalt in oily ripples. The soldiers file out behind us, sweating in their makeshift uniforms of not-quite-matching gray jackets and work pants. Kenerly’s wearing a handful of Army medals that he’s too young to have earned, and I wonder if they’re his father’s. I wonder if he developed his physique to compensate for his acne scars. I wonder what he’d think of me if I weren’t the anomaly that I am.

  “Sir,” he says to Rosso, “may I ask why he’s here?”

  Rosso shades his eyes and peers into the distant streets. “Who are you referring to?”

  Kenerly jerks his chin toward me.

  “This isn’t a stealth op, Major; non-verbals aren’t necessary. I believe you’re looking for a letter. Oscar? Papa? Quebec . . . ?”

  Kenerly’s jaw flexes. “May I ask why R is here, sir.”

  I expect Rosso to brush him off with another vague “I have a feeling,” but instead, without taking his eyes off the city, he says, “R is here because he’s a refugee from a world we don’t understand, and I want his opinion of our guests.”

  “What would a zombie know about the Axiom Group, sir?”

  Rosso finally turns around, and there’s a tightly controlled anger in his face. “Axiom was wiped out in the Borough Conflicts and their headquarters and all their executives were buried in the Eight Six. John and I went back and confirmed it ourselves, and there’s a photo in my office of us standing by the lake where their little kingdom used to be.”

  As he speaks, I feel a queasy sensation in my gut. An infrasound hum rolling up from the basement, rumbling through cracks in the plaster that’s slathered over my mind, that suspiciously door-shaped blankness.

  “Axiom is dead,” Rosso says. “It’s been dead for nearly a decade. And when dead things start moving again, I get superstitious. So indulge me.”

  He gives me a look as if to confirm I’m keeping up with him, and it pulls me back. I blink a few times and give him a nod, though I’m not sure what it signifies. Am I agreeing to something? I wish I could read the contracts I sign.

  “Here they come,” one of the guards says, and I am suddenly not the center of attention anymore. Main Street cuts a long, straight line through the center of Post, all the way to the grassy hills outside the city, and there, near the road’s vanishing point, a dark shape is growing larger.

  “Where are they coming from?” Kenerly wonders aloud. “Goldman’s the other way.”

  We watch the shape emerge from the orange haze of the setting sun, slowly resolving into a recognizable form. A single, nondescript SUV, beige paint, no markings. The kind of anonymous vehicle suitable for a low-end limo service. The soldiers hold their rifles casually, posed in nonaggressive stances, but I see their fingers flexing on the grips. What are they to make of an envoy like this?

  The SUV rolls up to the gate and parks neatly within the lines of a parking spot, one of hundreds in the mostly empty lot. The front doors open. The representatives of the so-called Axiom Group, its so-called “pitchmen,” emerge from the vehicle.

  I feel the infrasound burbling under my stomach as they approach. The door that isn’t a door rattles faintly.

  The pitchmen have a uniform. They wear black slacks. Gray shirts. Silk ties in blue, yello
w, black. They wear wide grins around porcelain-white teeth.

  “Hello!” the one in the blue tie says in a rich, authoritative baritone. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us.”

  “Absolutely . . . ,” Rosso replies, sounding far from absolute.

  “We represent the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” the one in the yellow tie says, and apparently their organization doesn’t care for gender-neutral titles because this pitchman is a pitchwoman. Her brown hair is tied into a neat ponytail, and her makeup is the heaviest I’ve ever seen on a post-apocalyptic female: bright red lipstick and a thick coat of foundation that gives her skin the matte dullness of a rubber glove. “The Axiom Group offers tried-and-true solutions to new problems.” Her tone is so genial it seems about to overflow into laughter. “May we come inside and discuss what Axiom can do for your enclave?”

  “It was my understanding that Axiom collapsed eight years ago,” Rosso says, keeping his voice and expression flat. “Their forces were wiped out in the Borough Conflicts and what was left of them was buried in the Eight Six quake.”

  “It’s true, that was an unprofitable year,” Blue Tie says with a note of somber reflection. “We suffered severe losses and did come close to closure.”

  “Fortunately,” Yellow Tie chirps, “Axiom’s foundations are deep and unshakable. After a brief hiatus and minor restructure, we are back in business and better than ever. May we come inside and discuss our services?”

  “What sort of services are we discussing?” Rosso says.

  “As you know, Goldman Dome was in the process of a merger with Citi Stadium when Axiom assumed management. We would like to continue that process.”

  Rosso and Kenerly exchange a glance. I don’t know what they were expecting from this encounter, but I doubt it was anything this . . . cheery.

  “May we come inside to discuss our services?” Yellow Tie repeats.

  Rosso looks at me, but all I can offer is an uneasy stare. “We’re always open to discussion,” he says.

  “Wonderful,” Yellow Tie says.

  The rear doors of the SUV open, and two more men emerge.

  “And who are they?” Rosso says, stiffening.

  “Our assistants,” Blue Tie says, as if surprised by the question. “They will assist with the merger process.”

  They are pale, doughy little men in white short-sleeve shirts and black slacks. They could be employees of an office supply store. One carries a thick notebook, the other a small metal briefcase, which he hands to Black Tie.

  Kenerly takes a step forward. “What’s in the case?”

  Black Tie gazes impassively at Kenerly. He is the tallest of the group and stands behind the others like a looming bodyguard, his eyes oddly still, vacant. He pops the latches and holds the case out to Yellow Tie, who lifts the lid and displays its contents like a gameshow prize: a stack of documents tucked into a manila folder.

  “Our presentation,” she says, blessing Kenerly with a patient smile. “Informational pamphlets, merger guidelines and agreements, et cetera.”

  “We know how hard it is to trust any outside group in today’s world,” Blue Tie says.

  “We believe in complete transparency,” Yellow Tie says.

  Black Tie says nothing.

  I can see Rosso’s jaw working as reason and instinct fight for dominance. There are disquieting shapes swimming in the depths, but the surface is peaceful: five unarmed ambassadors extending an offer of alliance. If there is a threat, it’s hidden somewhere behind those bright and earnest eyes.

  “It’s very hot,” Yellow Tie says, miming the act of wiping her perfectly dry forehead. “May we come inside and discuss our services?”

  Rosso’s eyes move from face to smiling face, searching for options, finding none. “By all means,” he says, and nods to Kenerly. “Let’s discuss.”

  The soldiers form a circle around our visitors, hands tight on their rifles, and we step through the steel doors.

  BALT IS WAITING for us inside. Ostensibly just chatting with Ted, he is sitting close enough to the gate to have overheard everything. He stands up, planting himself in a chest-out stance as he sizes up Axiom’s representatives.

  “Hello!” Blue Tie calls to him with a wave. In the lobby’s harsh fluorescent lights, I notice that Blue Tie and Black Tie are also wearing makeup, though it’s subtler than Yellow’s. Just a light coat of foundation and a dusting of anti-shine, protection from the unforgiving lens of some imaginary TV camera. “We represent the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” Blue Tie says. “We’re here to complete the merger.”

  “Captain Balt,” he says warily, and offers a palm. “Representing Twenty-One Cock Street and the surrounding block.”

  “He’s not a captain,” Rosso sighs. “And it’s not Cock Street.”

  Blue Tie doesn’t exactly reject the handshake, but he evades it, exchanging it for solid eye contact and a firm nod. “Relying on elected representatives in such desperate times may be a risky indulgence,” he says through a friendly grin.

  “But we look forward to exploring many variations of civil government with you in the future,” Yellow Tie says. She scans Balt from the boots up, and her voice adopts a slightly higher, more girlish pitch. “You seem well-equipped for leadership.” Her smile is not quite professional anymore. “I’m sure your people are already utilizing your full potential?”

  “Not exactly,” Balt grunts. He looks off-balance, unsure where to direct his bluster.

  “The Axiom Group always recognizes potential,” she says, and the seriousness of her words clashes with her coquettish tone. “In these uncertain times, we understand the value of personal conviction. If your enclave does choose to cooperate with us, rest assured we can find a place for a man like you to shine.” Her lips are so red they seem to throb. “I look forward to seeing your capabilities.”

  She returns her attention to Rosso, and whatever she just extended to Balt coils back into her. Her voice resumes its pristine professionalism. “Would it be all right with you if the captain gave our assistants a brief tour while we discuss the merger?”

  “A tour,” Rosso repeats.

  “We’d like to make a cursory assessment of your enclave’s assets so that we can better define the terms of our merger. Would that be all right with you?”

  Rosso looks at the two assistants. He looks at Yellow Tie. “No. I don’t think it would.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “I don’t understand.”

  It’s the first thing she’s said that I believe. She is reading from a flowchart and it lacks a branch for refusal.

  “With all due respect,” Rosso says in a carefully neutral tone, “we’re not in the habit of giving ‘tours’ to agents of foreign militia groups. You haven’t even given us your names.”

  Yellow Tie stabilizes her fluctuating smile. “If you’re concerned that we’re here to learn your weaknesses, let me assure you there is nothing so complex at play. Your enclave is a sports arena. There are no weaknesses because there are no strengths. You’re simply people in a box.” She grins warmly.

  “The Axiom Group has no interest in invasions,” Blue Tie says. “Invasions waste resources and create dangerous tensions within the conglomerate. We prefer to be embraced willingly.”

  Rosso’s face is stony. “The Axiom I remember was not so cautious in its expansion. I seem to recall it eating up half of New York and proclaiming itself the new US government before God and a dozen armies decided otherwise.”

  “Mistakes were made,” Blue Tie says with the same grave nod he offered the first time Rosso brought up their history. “Our organization was passionate, and this led to immoderation. But much has changed. We have developed sustainable strategies for effective interaction with a diverse public.”

  “We are here to prove our value to you,” Yellow Tie says with doe-eyed sincerity. “We are here to help.”

  Black Tie says nothing.

  Rosso looks at me again, and again I have nothin
g to offer but my vague, inarticulate apprehension. The truth is, Yellow Tie is right. There are no secrets here for spies to steal. No access codes or defense strategies. Just twenty thousand scared and hungry people packed into houses made of trash. But Rosso has to draw a line somewhere.

  “Your assistants are welcome to stay and assist with our negotiations,” he says, forcing a thin smile. “But I’m afraid guided tours are unavailable at this time.”

  The pitchmen look at Rosso. The fluorescent lights buzz like beehives. Yellow Tie widens her grin to show teeth. “I’m glad we were able to reach an effective compromise.” Her voice reveals no trace of irritation. “May we begin our presentation?”

  Rosso indicates a nearby eatery table. “Have a seat.”

  Blue Tie regards the table, then the sunny passageway to the stadium’s interior. “We would prefer a more secure location.”

  Rosso spreads his hands. “I’m afraid this is as secure as it gets around here. As you so rightly pointed out, we’re just people in a box.”

  “Surely you have a space in which to discuss operations away from the ears of citizens.”

  “Our former leader built a space like that. We don’t use it anymore. We’ve stopped hiding operations from the people they’ll affect.”

  Blue Tie blinks a few times, still maintaining his grin. “That’s not the way things are done.”

  “You said you believe in complete transparency.”

  “We apologize for our poor choice of words,” Yellow Tie says. “We meant translucency. We believe in complete translucency.”

  “With all due respect—” He stops. “I’m sorry, I still haven’t gotten your names.”

  “We’re representatives of the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” Yellow Tie says. “We appreciate your patience as we determine how to meet your needs.”

  “Are you not hearing me?” Rosso snaps, his eyes beginning to spark. “I’m asking what your name—”

  “I’m afraid your attitude may be negatively affecting the outcome of this meeting,” Blue Tie interjects with a sudden spike in volume, and the corners of his grin fall.