I hear bursts of noise that have the rhythm of words, but their sibilance and inflection are scrambled, draining them of meaning.
“Can you hear me?”
More noise. Another jamming surge. Even a few blocks apart, we are mumbling to each other from distant planets.
I hand the walkie back to the soldier and march on with a deepened sense of doom.
“Your enclave’s growth is impressive,” Yellow Tie tells Rosso, her eyes inventorying each building. “It will be a valued member of the Axiom family should you decide to join us.”
“May I ask,” Rosso asks, “just hypothetically, what our relationship with Goldman Dome would be if we decided not to join?”
Blue Tie puts on his grave face. “We live in dangerous times. The world is full of rapists, serial killers, paedophiles, terrorists, and inhuman monsters who want to eat your family.”
“The Axiom Group offers safety from everything,” Yellow Tie says.
Black Tie says nothing.
Rosso looks into their deeply sincere eyes. A bleak chuckle escapes him. “Well all right then. Thank you for clarifying.”
I see the Armoury door approaching at the end of Gun Street. Most of the doors inside the stadium are flimsy sheets of plywood that open with a rough shove. This one is nearly as severe as the main gate, a slab of steel wide enough for a Humvee to drive through but dwarfed by the expanse of concrete around it. It is the only interior door with a lock.
Rosso inserts his key. Kenerly steps forward to help him open the door, but Rosso waves him off and heaves it open easily. I find some small comfort in this. His paunch is deceptive. His glasses are a disguise. He’s fought in more wars than most men can name, and under his wrinkled skin is a steel core. Perhaps he has a plan.
The pitchmen follow him into the concrete corridors of the inner wall. This passage was probably intended for getting emergency vehicles onto the playing field back when people injured each other for recreation. Now it accommodates emergency vehicles of a different sort. Row upon row of trucks fill the echoing garage of the Armoury, some military and some militarised: camouflaged Army Humvees parked alongside Hummer H3s with power sunroofs and heated seats. Vehicles once favoured by athletes—men the world regarded as warriors—are now driven into battle by terrified teenagers preparing to die. These days, there is more than enough war to quench humanity’s thirst. We no longer have to simulate it.
Beyond the garage is a large open chamber with rows of tall shelves accessible only by forklift. It resembles a construction supply warehouse, except the equipment on its shelves is for the opposite of construction. I have never been in the Armoury before, and for a moment, I catch myself lost in lizard-brain gun lust. Racks of weaponry from pistols to shotguns to rocket launchers. Crates of grenades. Land mines. And an entire corner devoted to zombie-slaying gear: chainsaws for Fleshies, steel clubs for Boneys, and police riot armour for protection from both. The dried black slime caked onto these items brings back memories that quickly cool my arousal, but I remain impressed. I had no idea the stadium was this well equipped. It occurs to me that Rosso may have had a good reason for agreeing to a meeting here. Perhaps he wanted Axiom’s representatives to see that, like Rosso himself, this enclave is not as defenceless as it looks.
“Well,” he says, spreading his hands, “here we are. Concrete walls. One entrance. Secure enough for you?”
“Yes,” Yellow Tie says, but she makes no move toward the conference table in the corner. All three pitchmen stand in the centre of the room letting their eyes roam the racks and shelves. Blue Tie approaches an open crate and runs his finger along the American flag stamped onto the rockets. “This is US Army ordnance, which makes it at least thirteen years old. It is unstable and unsafe.”
Rosso drops the lid back onto the crate and locks it. “Our bombs may be a little stale, but they get the job done. We’ve dealt with more than a few invaders in my time here, and most are surprised by how effective an Army-trained security force can be. Ask the UT-AZ Elders, if you can still find any.”
“We recommend munitions by Grey River National,” Blue Tie continues as if he never paused, giving no sign that he registered Rosso’s not-so-veiled threat. “They were manufactured as recently as seven years ago and were designed to survive extended storage. As a member of the Axiom Group, you’ll have full access to our supply network.”
Rosso’s face grows stiffer. “Are we here to discuss the shelf life of grenades? Or can you illuminate for us why the hell you’ve come here from wherever the hell you came from?”
Yellow Tie smiles. “Of course. I’ll be happy to help you with that.”
As if hearing some silent cue, Black Tie pops open his briefcase and holds it out to her. She takes the folders, and though the case is now empty, Black Tie doesn’t close it. He moves away from the group and sets it on the conference table, then remains standing next to it. I have not seen him make eye contact with anyone since getting out of his SUV. Not blind, but … drugged? Sleepwalking?
Blue Tie locks his eyes on each soldier, then on me. It’s the first time he’s looked directly at me, and something in his gaze—the improbably intense blue of his irises, the faint smile that never leaves his face even when he’s delivering grim pronouncements—makes me feel worms wriggling in my spine.
“I’m afraid we do need to ask all but executive personnel to leave at this time,” he says, still looking at me.