FLOOR 21

by Jason Luthor

  Dad’s voice comes out of the haze of black smoke filling the air. “Jackie!” he calls. I see him leaping through the dark clouds pouring off the ground, only to see his body flail backward as a tendril strikes him in the shoulder. He screams as it cuts right through him, pinning him to the wall. Blood bursts from his upper arm as he struggles to pull the Creep from his body.

  A thin-framed silhouette pops into view from the wall of flames raging hard to my right. It staggers forward, weak limbs carrying it step after step along the ground. The crying, though. The sobbing. She just keeps wailing as she stops near my dad and looks at him, her jaws detaching wider than humanly possible while she moans. Then she raises her hand. She puts it to his chest, and Creep just starts to pour out of it, like she can create it from herself. It starts to cover his body, molding over his chest and swarming down his legs.

  I reach out. I try to do anything. I can’t. I can’t move. I can barely scream one word.

  “Daddy!”

  Sally’s head tilts up, and she looks off to the side, her lips quivering. Then she looks back at me, her eyes hidden behind those bangs of hers. She stares at me, struggling to speak. Then she says the only word I’ll ever hear from her.

  “Da . . . ddy?”

  Her mouth explodes into a scream as her arm erupts into ash and fire, a solid blade of flame cutting through it. Abbott’s sword separates her from Dad, but as she falls to the ground, she manages to create a thick limb from the floor that slaps the blade, and Abbott, like toys into the inferno. Off-balance and screaming, she collapses groundward, the back of her head hitting the floor next to me.

  She’s breathing hard. So, she does get tired. She obviously feels pain. She cries.

  Sally reaches upward, her fingers grasping at memories I can’t see. She’s sobbing.

  “Daddy . . . Dad . . . dy . . .”

  What kills me is that she remembers. At the very end, she remembers her daddy.

  Whatever she was a minute ago, she’s different now. At least for that second when she remembers.

  And yet there’s nothing else that we can do. The family she had died over a hundred years ago. The only reason she’s still alive is because of the Creep.

  So I do the only thing that can be done.

  I turn and plunge the needle right into her neck. She kinda jolts for a second when it hits, but she doesn’t scream this time. Actually she just looks at me. She stops crying. She smiles.

  And then she’s gone.

  Recording Forty-One

  Real quick: Abbott survived. Of course he did.

  Whatevs.

  Things move fast after Sally goes down. First off, the Creep. I mean seriously, what the heck? One minute we’re swimming in gunk, and the next it’s gone. It’s like someone pulled the plug on a bathtub drain, and it all just recedes away. Well, whatever power Sally had, Dad was right about her keeping the infestation going. Once she was gone, the entire floor settled down. Lockdown’ll stay in place for a few hours while they do some patrols ’cause, you know, that’s just sort of Security’s thing. Still, everyone’s obviously a lot more chill once we’re not ankle-deep in muscle tissue.

  Which obviously, you know, makes sense.

  Anyway, I’m not out of trouble, so I won’t act as if everything’s peaches. It doesn’t take Security more than a few minutes to clean up the area. You know, wiping away all that ash-gray goop. Afterward it takes them just a couple seconds more to grab and haul us back up the stairwell. It’s a forced march that’s just killer on my knees. As if we didn’t just fall through a hellish inferno onto the lower floor. Oh well, I’m young and strong, right? Guess I can take it! At least that’s how they’re acting. I mean, who cares about the girl that just put an end to Creepy Sally?

  I’m not surprised when I see the door to Floor 1 again, although it’s kind of a joke by now. This isn’t the first time I’ve been let in through the front door, and by now I just feel less impressed about it. A floor full of psychos taking drugs to keep them happy? At least happy enough that they don’t talk to each other about what’s going on in this tower?

  I’d rather live in the Creep.

  Sure, I’d go hungry, but, I mean, at least I’d still be me. Are you really “you” when you’re always taking drugs to forget yourself?

  See, I think about these things. I’m not just curious for the sake of being curious. I can get philosophical and stuff.

  Of course, I don’t really have much time to ponder the meaning of existence as they drag me along down the halls. Dad’s with me the whole way, so that’s nice, but it’s so weird being escorted by Security while those cheery commercials shout at us from the air that “A daily will do you,” which by this time translates to some freaking terrifying behavior.

  But, you know, I’m still me. I’m still curious. I might not want to live up here, but I do want to know everything I can about this place I call home. Because I really don’t know if what we’ve got going on in this tower can last forever.

  Anyway, soon we enter a long hall. I know something’s different, ’cause there aren’t any doors. Well, none except the single pair at the very end of the hall.

  Yeah. That looks like it might be, you know, important.

  Abbott holds back my dad and gives me a push. I kinda want to tear his arm off for touching me, but I hold back my incredible strength. Heh. I look over at Dad, and he nods, so . . . I guess it’s cool for me to go?

  I start to march, and the hallway seems to just stretch on forever. There are a few potted plants and a couple of soft-looking couches, but no windows or anything like that.

  You know what it does have, though? Paintings. Lots of them.

  I wish . . . I wish I knew who painted them. What they’re about. They were important enough to keep, right? Why, though? Does anyone even remember?

  One’s of some guy, a military-looking dude with a weird white wig on. I’ll admit it, though, he looks freakin’ sweet. Guy’s wearing a cape, some crazy hat, and there’s this flag behind him in the boat he’s riding. It’s got these red and white stripes, and a bunch of stars on a blue background.

  This next one . . . I dunno, it kinda sucks. It’s just a woman smiling at you. I don’t get that one.

  Another one I spot is weird because I actually recognize the guy in it. He’s the dude that was on that cross in the Reception Hall. Uh, he looks like he’s in a lot less pain now, I think. I dunno, it looks like he’s at a dinner or something. He’s got, like, twelve of his friends with him.

  This last one, though . . . it’s weird.

  It’s got two guys. One of them’s almost naked. Glad he’s got his legs crossed. Anyway, he’s reaching out to this other, older guy. Their fingers are almost touching, just not quite. The old guy’s got all these . . . I guess they’re babies? . . . babies around him.

  Actually, the old dude, if you look at him from a certain angle, kinda looks like he’s sitting in a human brain.

  My mind must be playing tricks on me.

  Anyway, what gets me is that nobody in this tower even knows what these are about anymore. They were important enough to paint but apparently not important enough to remember. Still, I guess that doesn’t matter at this point. I’m at the doorway. I take a look back down the hall, and Dad and the rest of the group are like specks in the distance. Dang. I didn’t realize it was this long a journey.

  Too busy appreciating “art,” I guess.

  So, I suck in a deep breath, grab the handles, and push the doors in.

  For a moment, I’m blinded by light.

  And then I hear the doors close behind me.

  Recording Forty-Two

  “Your name is Jackie,” he says. “My name is Edward.”

  He laughs, then throws his hands in the air. “You can call me whatever you like, actually. It’s been so long since anyone remembered what my real name is. They haven’t used it since I was eighteen.”

  I look around, and I’m just like . . . whoa.

 
; His office is huge, and it just stretches on, lined with towers of bookshelves on both sides. Not like those crappy pieces of garbage we have that are falling apart.

  These books are new. Brand-new.

  He sees my mouth hanging and laughs again. “Jackie,” he says, “come here. Come on.”

  I nod, but I don’t walk fast. Actually I can’t walk fast since my legs are ignoring me. The view behind him . . . it stretches from floor to ceiling and . . . and it’s so blue. The sun is spying over the clouds, and there’s a chain of mountains that are blanketed by snow. I know they’re not real, but, dang, I wish they were. It takes me a sec before I catch him waving me on to the desk, but I feel like I’m plowing through water. It’s so beautiful I almost want to cry. Then I remember the last time I had this feeling, the first time I came to Floor 1, and I suck it in. I’m not going to get lied to again. So, I take a seat in front of his desk.

  The floor is white. The long rug leading to his desk is white. The shelves are white. The desk is white. His suit is white.

  I look up at him. “Did I die and not realize it or something? Is this some crazy afterlife?”

  The guy smiles. He’s handsome, for an old dude. Sharp face, this trimmed gray goatee. Can’t hate on those silver eyes, either. Eyes I quickly recognize from the commercials repeating on Floor 1. Anyway, he says, “No, you’re not dead. You’re quite alive, actually, despite all odds. I’m quite impressed.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Yes, Abbott broadcast it all. Quite a heroic attempt to destroy that creature on Floor 16, I must say. I didn’t realize that level of courage was still to be found on the upper levels.”

  I’m listening to him, but my chest is just hurting. I feel like a ball is trying to jam its way up my throat. “What’s going on?” I can hear my voice crack when I start talking. Dammit. “Please, I have to know.”

  “Where would you like me to start?”

  I glance around, looking from the bookshelves to the window and back to him. “What is this place? Who are you? Why did you bring me here?”

  He holds up a hand as his lips twist upward. “One at a time, please. We can tackle the obvious. This is Authority Central, the office of the tower director. I am he and he is I. Director Edward Pygmalion, at your service. And the tower you have lived in your entire life is properly termed Tower Pisa. But I get the feeling you’re more interested in why you’re here.”

  “Well, considering it was just yesterday that I was getting sentenced . . . to Reinforcement . . .”

  “Ah, yes, an unpleasant process, that. I have to see it here, you know, along with most of what happens in Pisa.”

  “You have a television, too?”

  He chuckles. “A television?” The director lifts his head upward like he’s going to talk into the wind. “Screens on.”

  Suddenly the bookshelves that were there a minute ago are gone. I mean, I’m not absolutely sure they were ever there in the first place. It’s hard to say. What I know is that dozens of screens surge to life and hide the walls where the bookshelves used to be. One, then another, light up until they stretch all the way back to the doorway. Even the window behind the director suddenly lights up, showing a view of the gardens on the rooftop. The black clouds replace the white and the gray skies remove the blue, and again I’m staring at the crapsack junk heap of a world I live in.

  He looks at me. “I see everything, Jackie. At least, as much as a single human being can see. It is my job, and I am the only person in the Tower that is given this responsibility. Only a person assigned to the position of director is given access to this much knowledge, much like your father is the only person allowed so much knowledge of the Creep. Every man and woman to their task, and none other. The left hand cannot know what the right hand is doing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because too much knowledge makes the people discontent,” he continues. “You already see it on Floor 1. Who seems happier to you, Jackie? The people on Floor 1, that live their daily lives consuming Voluptas, or the people on Floors 10 or 11 that can honestly celebrate the Scavenging?”

  My teeth almost drain the blood from my lower lip as I try to figure this out. “The more you know, the less happy you are?”

  “Jackie, I am the least happy of all the people in Tower Pisa, because I alone carry the burden of knowing there is no leaving this place. All we can do is keep the Creep at bay. Now, imagine if everyone that lives here knew the truth? That the stories they clung to were false? What then?”

  “They’d . . . they’d . . .” I know what he’s saying. I don’t completely believe The Book of the Tower myself, and that’s already depressing. “They’d get desperate.”

  “Exactly. As of now the lower levels believe that Floor 1 is securing the future for them. The Scavenging gives them hope and brings new and exciting times to their lives. They believe that the technology we acquire will help battle the Creep. It might not be enough to make them happy, but it’s enough to keep them content. Meanwhile, those on Floor 1 know that everything we do is futile. You’ve already seen it, their condition. Why they need the Voluptas.” He chuckles as he folds his hands on the desk. “Now imagine with me. What if the people of Floor 1 stopped taking Voluptas?”

  “They’d get . . . sad. Depressed.”

  “What if they stopped doing their jobs?”

  “Then the Tower would stop functioning.”

  “And what would the people of the lower levels do?”

  I look down, shrugging. “I dunno. Get angry. Curious. And like I said, desperate.”

  “What you mean is more desperate than they already are. And what happens when 15,000 people, all at once, suddenly get depressed and desperate? How do you think the Creep would react?”

  My eyes shoot up to his. “Oh my God.”

  He leans back in his chair, his folded hands resting on his chest. “Which is why I alone am given the duty of watching the Tower and soaking in all I can about its daily functions. So it was decreed, long ago, by the Builders.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why are we here? Why did they build this tower?”

  “Again, sadly, I don’t know.”

  My fist slams the table. “Why not?”

  The director leans forward, smiling, but he looks sad at the same time. “Because memory is painful. I’m not sure even I want to know why we’re here. What caused us to be here? It’s hard to discern the truth in our stories, but one constant lies in every part of The Book of the Tower: that, once, we brought the Darkness upon ourselves.”

  He gestures around. “If a man is not remembered, did he ever exist?”

  “Well, yeah, he did. Right?”

  “How would you be able to tell?”

  “He leaves something behind. Something he owned or thought was important.”

  Director Pygmalion’s lips curve halfway. “And when those are gone? Did he ever, really, exist?”

  What am I supposed to say? I don’t know and he can tell, so he continues, “A society, on the other hand, isn’t quite the same. With so many people, something inevitably gets left behind.” He points to the ground beneath us. “The Tower is a perfect example. But why was it built? What was its purpose? You can’t destroy every relic of the past, but you can wipe out the memories of why they were created.”

  “But why are we wiping those out?”

  “Is a man guilty of something he does not remember?”

  I feel like he’s playing mind games with me, so, for a minute, I’m just staring at this guy. I mean, seriously, I have no idea what he’s trying to tell me. “I’m really not getting you. What do you mean?”

  “Take ten people in a room. One person kills another. Everyone knows who the culprit is. Then, their memory of the killing is erased, and the murder weapon removed. Is the man guilty?”

  “Of course he is!”

  “According to who? Who will accuse him?”

  I’m stuck. I’m fo
r real stuck; I got no way of answering this guy. “I . . . Someone. Someone has to be. Right? Of course, he’s guilty.”

  “No. He’s not. He’s not answerable to himself or to the people around him. Neither will they expect him to answer. Now, what if all those people were guilty of the murder?”

  “How can everyone be guilty for one murder?”

  “What if they all took knives to the victim?”

  “Well, I mean, then everyone’s guilty of it.”

  “And will everyone feel guilty?”

  “Maybe not everyone. But, c’mon, most of them would. I think. At least, I hope.”

  Pygmalion lifts his finger. “Exactly. Now you’ve got them all trapped in a room they can’t escape. You’ve got people feeling terrible about murdering an innocent man, a few that don’t, and you ask them to stay together for a few days. Perhaps a few weeks. What happens when those that can’t take the guilt demand that justice be done? What happens when they demand accountability?”

  I say, “I don’t . . .”

  “What happens when you take away their food and water and tell them only one side can have any?”

  I stutter, “I just . . .”

  “What happens when those that feel comfortable with murder decide they’re unwilling to share food and, worse, are willing to hide the truth?”

  I stammer, “It’s not that simple . . .”

  “What happens, Jackie, when you put that much pressure on people?”

  I drop my head. “Things go bad.”

  Pygmalion snaps his fingers, and a few of the screens grow humongous. He waves at one. “Behold,” he says, getting up and staring at it. “A husband and wife, both wealthy by any standards of the Tower. The woman, a doctor charged with cultivating the Creep for use in Reinforcement. The man, an athletic instructor that secretly despises the use of that practice.” He turns toward me. “He can’t admit it, of course, but I see it, in his face. Each time the Reinforcement is broadcast, I see the small strokes of his face, the cringes he makes. Should his wife tell him she’s in charge of creating that same substance?”