XOM-B

by Jeremy Robinson

  Harry cranes his head around, smiling. “Books. This must have been someone’s personal library.”

  I look at the surrounding room, which isn’t large, with a new kind of sight. Except for where the two windows are, and the door, every wall is covered with books.

  “Most of them are fiction,” Harry says.

  When I squint, he explains. “Stories that aren’t true. About people that didn’t exist. While they’re often realistic elements, the actions and events that unfold are imagined.”

  My eyes widen. “Like your paintings?”

  “Precisely,” Harry says. He pulls a book from what I now see is one of many shelves. He flips it over and reads the words printed on the cover. “Lord of the Flies by William Golding. This could be interesting.”

  “Did they really write stories about flies?” I ask. It seems an odd topic. Flies. Of all of the creatures I’ve encountered they seem to be one of the most mundane.

  Harry shrugs. “I’ve only read the few books that Mrs. Cameron had. Nonfiction biographies of long-dead celebrities. Famous people,” he clarifies before I can ask. He puts the book back and pulls out another. “Kama Sutra. Huh.”

  “Wait,” Luscious says. “Don’t—”

  I’m not sure why Luscious is protesting, but it’s too late. Harry has opened the book, releasing a smell that feels ancient, but is also pleasing. When the pages stop turning and I catch sight of an image, I forget all about the scent of books. “What. Is. That?”

  “I have no idea,” Harry says. He turns the page, then rotates the book, looking at the image of two people twisted together from every angle. “What are they doing?”

  I’m not sure, but something about the image stirs my curiosity, particularly the one detail that seems to be universal between the images. One man. One woman. Connected. The pages turn one by one and I find myself unable to look away.

  “Oh dear,” Harry says, at one very uncomfortable-looking combination of positions. “They’re going to injure themselves.”

  A grunt of displeasure turns me around to find Luscious, head turned toward the floor. Her hand rests on her forehead, concealing her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “You don’t see anything wrong with those images?” she asks.

  The tone of her voice is confusing. I’m not sure if she’s suggesting I should find something wrong, or merely surprised that I haven’t already. When I don’t reply, she adds, “The man. He looks … normal to you?”

  “He’s flexible,” I admit.

  Her eyes scrunch together, glancing toward my legs for a moment. “Really?”

  A dull beeping sound cuts through the room, growing louder by the moment. The three of us duck down into the shadowy floor. The books are forgotten. The shrill chime consumes my thoughts.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Harry frowns. “An alarm…”

  39.

  It’s Heap, I think. He’s been caught. And if that’s true, then the enemy knows we’re here and will come looking for us. My body tenses in anticipation of what will likely be a fight to the death. But nothing more happens. Aside from the loudly repeating beep, the ancient city is silent. No gunshots. Not one. I relax a little. Heap would never be caught without a fight. But then what is the alarm for?

  Crouching below one of the library’s two windows, I inch my head up into the light partly expecting to be immediately spotted, but needing to know what’s happening outside. If we’ve already been found out, we need to know. The alarm continues to grow louder as my eyes rise up over the sill.

  The street below is clear. No movement. No source of the alarm.

  I look up, thinking the noise might be coming from the brick building across the street. A quick look reveals nothing suspicious.

  “Does this open?” I ask no one in particular, pushing up on the window.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Harry asks.

  “No, but—”

  Luscious stands suddenly, unlocks the window and shoves it up.

  “What are you doing?” Harry asks with a touch of shock.

  “It’s not an alarm,” she says, pointing down the street, toward the sound’s source, which is still getting closer. “You probably didn’t have them out in the boonies, but they’re common in the city. Even now.”

  Harry and I stand slowly, leaning closer to the window so we can see what’s coming. It’s a yellow machine with a flashing orange light on top. Some kind of vehicle with large wheels in the back. Small in the front. But the most distinguishing feature are the two large spinning brushes jutting out in front of it.

  “Is it … cleaning the road?” Harry asks.

  “That’s why they call it a street sweeper,” Luscious says.

  We watch the beeping, spinning machine pass by beneath us and go on its way, oblivious to our presence. It’s a robot, I think, noticing that it has no operator. A drone … for cleaning instead of bombing.

  “Well,” Harry says, standing straighter and brushing off his soaked trench coat like the dust has already begun collecting on it. “If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I would like a brief respite to collect myself. It’s been some time since I’ve had such an adventure. Truthfully, I’ve never had such an adventure. I would like to refresh in the other room. Collect my thoughts.”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed myself. “Just stay out of the light and keep watch.”

  Harry offers a salute and says, “As you command.”

  “I didn’t command,” I say quickly, horrified that Harry has mistaken my request for an order which would imply servitude and a breach of the Grind Abolition Act.

  “I was teasing,” Harry says and quickly elaborates. “A joke. Intending humor. I apologize if it was not funny.”

  I’m about to fake a laugh to spare his feelings, but then realize there may not even be anyone left to enforce the Grind Abolition Act, and can’t even manage a sympathetic smile.

  “I’ll just take this with me.” He picks up the copy of Lord of the Flies, takes one step back toward the door and stops. “And this,” he says, bending down to collect the Kama Sutra book. “I’ll let you know if I spot anything unusual. Outside, I mean. Not in this book.” He smiles, backs toward the door, steps through and closes it behind him.

  When he’s gone, Luscious says, “You need to relax.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your view of the world is so sterile, so simplified and rigid—”

  “Rigid?” This is hardly a word I would use to describe myself. Inquisitive. Curious. Even passionate. But rigid?

  She holds her palms up. “Rigid is the wrong word. Fixed.”

  “Same thing.”

  She sighs. “Your understanding of the law. Of the Council. It’s lopsided. Mohr might have wanted you to discover history and an understanding of it for yourself, but your view of the Council was never up for debate. Their strident views on slavery and freedom are great, but our post-Grind civilization is hardly free of oppression, tragedy or vile acts. You’ve seen it for yourself. In a world where the Lowers and everyone living there can be obliterated—slaughtered—for the greater good, you’re still worried about the implication that you were a little bossy to Harry. If you’re really free, Freeman, you can say whatever you want.”

  The light filtering in through the windows strikes the side of Luscious’s head, giving her eyes a gleam, her hair a shine and highlighting her high cheeks and the lips that fit her name. I’ve heard her words, but they’ve been dulled by her beauty. In fact, I completely miss the next two sentences, hearing only the fiery tone of her voice and noticing how it seems to match her hair.

  “Try it,” she says.

  “What?” I reply, snapping out of my trancelike state.

  “Try it.”

  “Try … what?”

  “Tell me what to do,” she says. “Boss me around. I’ll do whatever you ask. Clean the room. Organize the books. Tell me what you want me to do a
nd see if anything bad happens. You’ve already done it a few times.”

  “When you were about to be eaten, maybe,” I say.

  “No difference.” Her hands go to her hips. “So? What should I do?”

  I look back toward the window. Toward the city outside that, for all we know, could house an army of zombies, just waiting for the signal to attack.

  “Worrying about Heap isn’t going to help anyone,” she says, pulling my attention back to her.

  “We should be preparing,” I say.

  “For what?”

  After a moment, I shrug. I have no idea what to expect, or what to do about it.

  “Look,” she says. “Right now, Heap is in charge.”

  My eyes scrunch together. “I guess…”

  “You guess? He left us here, without telling us where he was going or what he was really doing.”

  She’s right about that, and I try not to reveal my discomfort with that situation or the fact that she seems to know Heap was not simply having a look around.

  “But here’s the thing, you’re our leader. You’re smarter, stronger and have more … everything than the rest of us. We’re all here because of you, not him. But to really lead, you need to take charge, and taking charge means telling people what to do. Giving orders.”

  While this doesn’t sit well, it makes sense. And Luscious certainly has a choice to listen or not. Nothing bad would happen if she didn’t do what I asked.

  “Go on,” she prods. “Make a request. Hell, make a demand if you want.”

  Well, this is easy. “Kiss me.” I realize I’ve said it like a question. When she doesn’t budge, I say, “Right now. Kiss me.” Still nothing. Thinking she’s trying to make me actually give her an order, I very seriously add, “Do it n—”

  Her fist connects with the side of my head, sprawling me sideways into a bookshelf that collapses under my weight. An avalanche of bound paper and inky information tumbles down, pummeling my body. But even the heaviest volume doesn’t sting as much as Luscious’s punch. In part because she has a really hard punch, but also because I’ve managed to make her angry.

  The books slide away as I sit up, holding my jaw. It’s sore, but not really damaged. I find Luscious sitting on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the bookshelf. Her knees are drawn up, held in place by her arms, one tightly clutched to the other. The floor holds her gaze.

  Somehow, she looks more hurt than I am.

  I inch closer on my hands and knees. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  She shakes her head. “You did exactly what I told you to.”

  I realize then that I wouldn’t really have been commanding her because she’d asked me to. If anything, she was telling me what to do. But I don’t think that was the point. And it certainly wasn’t the intended result.

  Her eyes look up while her head remains downcast. “I was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Saying whatever you want without taking the history and experiences of the receiving person into account isn’t right.” Her head comes up now.

  “I’m very sorry,” I say, feeling horrible. “Did I forget something about you? Did I—”

  “You don’t need to apologize for something you didn’t know,” she says.

  “If you tell me about it, I can—”

  “Shut up,” she says. “Just shut up.”

  I’m not sure what “shut up” means, but I think she’s telling me to stop talking. Before I can decide whether or not I’ll comply, she reaches out and wraps her hand behind my head. With a handful of hair, she pulls me toward her.

  Her lips find mine.

  The pain in my jaw fades.

  The conversation and all its awkwardness becomes a distant memory.

  The transfer of feelings beyond simple words begins anew, creating a sense of exhilaration that locks me in place. Not Luscious, though. She’s kissing me this time and the flow of what I think is love is coming in my direction. While it’s in direct contrast to the punch I just received, it quickly erases my concerns and replaces them with something else.

  The emotions come on so fast and strong that I pull back.

  “What’s happening?” I ask. “I don’t feel right. I’m heating up.”

  She grins wickedly, wraps her legs around my back and pulls me back down. The moment her lips touch mine again, my concerns become vapor, intangible and fading.

  I find my mind and body lost in some kind of bliss. I feel her body—all of it—in new ways. My hands move as though guided by some magnetic force, pulled to her body, squeezing, sliding, pushing. Without remembering how it happened, I find my clothes missing. As are Luscious’s.

  In that flicker of lucidity, I ask, “What is this? What’s happening?”

  To my surprise, and, I must admit, delight, she replies, “I don’t know.”

  And then, once again, we’re lost.

  And connected, but only to each other.

  The world beyond ceases to exist.

  Time passes unnoticed.

  And then, in a flash, reality slams back into focus.

  Luscious, unclothed, sits atop me, straddling my waist. There are books beneath me, pushing hard into my back.

  A gentle tapping turns my head toward the door.

  “Everything okay in there?” Harry asks. “I thought I heard shouting.”

  “Fine,” I say, pushing myself up. For some reason, I don’t want Harry to spot us like this, mostly because I’m not sure how it will be perceived. I have no idea what we just did. “Just give us a minute.”

  “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it down. I’ve been watching the street and haven’t seen anything, but there is really no need to advertise our whereabouts.” Harry’s footsteps move away from the door.

  “Okay,” I say. “You’re right.” While the seriousness of our situation returns to the forefront of my thoughts, it fails to remove the grin from my lips.

  Luscious rolls off me and we quickly dress. Without a word shared between us, we turn our backs to each other. For some reason I feel suddenly embarrassed by my naked state. A minute ago, I wasn’t even aware of it, but now … I manage to squeeze back into the tight black leather outfit made from dead cows in under thirty seconds. I turn around in time to see Luscious zip up the front of her leathers, concealing her body once again.

  For a moment, we just stare at each other.

  I reach out a hand.

  She takes it.

  We smile and I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her in a tight hug that she returns. I bury my face in her hair for a moment, breathing in her smell, and then turn to the side resting my head on her shoulder. After a moment, I open my eyes—

  —and freeze. My whole body tenses.

  “What is it?” Luscious whispers, no doubt detecting my sudden tension.

  “The window,” I say.

  We separate so that she can turn toward the window. She gasps.

  A man is standing in the street, looking up at us.

  But he’s not a man. Not anymore. He’s a zombie.

  The rags that cover his body, all torn and tattered, are hard to distinguish from his skin, which hangs in a similar state. The man has been shredded and peeled. He’s hunched forward and I note that one of his legs is actually a bit shorter than the other. Clumps of hair dot his head, but the gleam of his skull is equally abundant.

  I prefer them in hordes, I decide. Standing alone like this, all of the man’s ghastly details stand out in stark detail. Impossible to ignore. Even harder not to pity.

  I glance from the man to the window we’re standing in front of. The open window. Whatever drew Harry to the door may have also drawn this man to our window.

  I’m about to verbally chastise our recklessness when Luscious whispers, “He’s alone.”

  “But for how long?” I ask.

  “Maybe we could run out there and—”

  The undead man waves a three-fingered hand at us like we’re
old friends.

  “Shit,” Luscious says, slinking back. The man’s very normal behavior seems to frighten her even more than their typical gnashing hunger.

  “Hello,” the man says, sounding quite friendly.

  There’s no sense in hiding from the man. He knows we’re here. I lean down toward the open window. “Um, hello.”

  “What were you just doing?” he asks, pointing up at me. “Just a moment ago.”

  I look back at Luscious just to make sure I’m not the only one who is absolutely confused. When I turn back to the street, the zombie stands waiting, patiently. “Hugging.”

  The man’s lone eyebrow furrows. “Huh.” And then, “For what purpose?”

  “It doesn’t concern you,” I say, embarrassed once again, though I’m not sure I should feel anything but loathing for the non-man standing outside the window intent on having a conversation. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Freeman!” Luscious grumbles.

  I shrug, unsure of what else to do or say.

  “Oh, right,” the undead man says. “I have your large armored friend. If you would like to see him again, in one piece, you will come with me.”

  Could this be the enemy we’ve traveled so far to confront? Not only is he clearly not one of the Masters, he’s also undead, at least in the physical appearance. But maybe that’s intentional? He could move about, among the horde and never be seen as anything special, as a target. But still, I expected something more … powerful. While the man is hideous to behold, he would not be difficult to destroy.

  But I can’t destroy him. That would do nothing to help Liberty and the people still fighting for survival, not to mention Heap, if he’s really been captured. This could be a trick, but I’m not willing to risk Heap’s life, even if he would prefer it. My only option is compliance.

  When I don’t reply, the man glowers at me and says, “Now.” He then points a half-finger toward the room where Harry is waiting. “And bring the bookworm.”

  40.

  When I exit the small library, Harry shakes his copy of Lord of the Flies over his head. “Do not read this book. A dreadful story.” He looks up when I don’t reply, sees my face and lowers the book. “What’s wrong?”