Home > The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(15)

The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(15)
Author: Isaac Marion

“To request military assistance, press one. To report military abuse, press two.”

On the help desk in the corner of the lobby, on an old black office phone, the line labeled “Goldman” is blinking red. The voice emanates from the phone’s speaker, backed by a faint trickle of music: calming synthesiser chords with occasional glimmers of sax.

“To report a new hive formation, press three. To report any information on a possible cause or cure, please hang up and call the National Plague ‘Rotline’ at 1-803-768-5463.”

The recording hisses and hums and wavers its pitch like a reel of tape that’s been looping for decades. Rosso looks bemused, as if this is some inscrutable prank. “Who called Fed 800?” he asks no one in particular.

“To report threats to or from your regional government, press four. If your state is attempting secession and you wish to request exemption from retributive strikes, press five.”

“I called Goldman again a few hours ago,” Kenerly says. “The line was still dead but I left it on auto-dial just in case.”

“How did their HQ line get patched into Fed 800 …?”

“For infection avoidance tips, press six. To speak to a live representative, press seven. And if you would simply like to be calmed, press eight to be redirected to the LOTUS Feed.”

The voice goes quiet, leaving only the background music, which has transitioned into a gentle Latin conga rhythm. Rosso looks at Kenerly, shrugs, and presses seven.

“Due to high national crisis levels and drastically reduced staff, we are experiencing longer than usual wait times. The estimated wait to speak to a representative is—three hundred sixty-five days. We are sorry for the delay. We are sorry.”

A smooth Spanish guitar riff noodles over fretless bass.

“Don’t know what I was expecting,” Rosso says. He reaches out to end the call.

There’s a buzzing noise, then a sharp click.

“Hello?”

Rosso’s hand freezes over the button. “Ah … hello?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lawrence Rosso at Citi Stadium. Who are … who am I speaking to?”

A pause.

“This line isn’t set up yet. I can’t answer questions.”

Rosso glances at Kenerly, then back at the phone. “Is this Goldman Dome headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“May I speak to General Cinza?”

Another pause.

“Goldman Dome is under new management. Mr. Cinza is no longer with us.”

“What do you mean ‘new management’?”

“This line isn’t set up yet. I can’t answer questions. Pitchmen will be arriving at your enclave in one hour to introduce our organisation.”

“What is your—”

“The pitchmen will introduce our organisation. They’ll arrive in one hour. Thank you for calling the Axiom Group.”

A click. The phone’s red light goes dark.

Much of the crowd has filtered in from the meeting hall, but despite being packed tight with people, the lobby is completely silent. Rosso’s eyes are on the phone but far away. I look at Julie and find a similar distance in her expression. Most of the faces in the room display simple confusion and unease—darting eyes, wringing hands, questions mumbled to the nearest neighbour—but every fourth or fifth person wears this strange, dreamy stare, like someone plunged into deep childhood reverie.

“Why do I know that name …,” Julie says, barely a whisper, and the undertones in her voice tell me this is not the pleasant kind of recollection, not the taste of a favourite candy or the first notes of a lullaby but the other kind. The kind that therapists dig out with special dolls.

And do I feel it? This uneasy nostalgia? I do not. I feel nothing. A cottony white nothing so perfect it’s suspicious, like a plastered-over door with a sign that says NOT A DOOR. A whole new level of numbness.

“Sounds like a fuckin’ invasion to me,” Balt grunts, unsurprisingly immune to the spell of introspection. “I say we meet ’em at the gate with every gun we’ve got.”

“Mr. Balt,” Rosso says softly, “you are not a ranking officer so will you please gather your fraternity and return to your building. We’re done here.” He steps back into the hall and addresses the mics. “The meeting is over, folks. Some … ambiguous developments are in progress. We’ll keep you apprised.”

The crowd in the lobby begins to disperse, floating on a tide of anxious chatter. Balt lingers long enough to imply he’s only leaving because he feels like it, but he leaves. Evan and a few other officers remain, waiting for Rosso.

“One unit outside the gate,” he tells them. “Armed, but nonaggressive. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Evan gives the traditional Army salute—more of a geeky anachronism the further into history the government recedes—and he and his officers exit.

After the whitewater noise of a packed house, the community centre feels ghostly with only five people in it. Nora spins a rod on the foosball table. The tiny blue men kick wildly, but there is no ball.

“What is this?” Julie asks Rosso as he stares at the floor. “Who are they?”

“Axiom was … a militia.” I can hear a longer, darker description buried in that ellipsis. His head is shaking subtly. “But it’s gone. It was wiped out years ago, when you were a little girl. There’s no way it could have …”

   
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