Lexicon (12 page)

“No.”

“It means the site looks different to different people. Let’s say you chose the poll option that said you’re in favor of tax cuts. Well there’s a cookie on your machine now, and when you look at the site again, the articles are about how the government is wasting your money. The site is dynamically selecting content based on what you want. I mean, not what you
want
. What will piss you off. What will engage your attention and reinforce your beliefs, make you trust the site. And if you said you were
against
tax cuts, we’ll show you stories of Republicans blocking social programs or whatever. It works every which way. Your site is made of mirrors, reflecting everyone’s thoughts back at them. That’s pretty great, right?”

“It’s great.”

“And we haven’t even started talking about keywords. This is just the beginning. Third major advantage: People who use a site like this tend to ramp up their dependence on it. Suddenly all those other news sources, the ones that aren’t framing every story in terms of the user’s core beliefs, they start to seem confusing and strange. They start to seem biased, actually, which is kind of funny. So now you’ve got a user who not only trusts you, you’re his major source of information on what’s happening in the world. Boom, you own that guy. You can tell him whatever you like and no one’s contradicting you. He’s—” The kid sucked in breath. “Aw, shit.”

“What is it?”

“I think I see a body.”

“You didn’t know there would be bodies?”

“I knew. Of course I knew. But knowing and seeing are two . . . aw, geez. That’s disgusting.”

“They’ve been in the sun for four months.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

“Is it just bone or . . . ?”

“It’s
mostly
bone,” said the kid. “That’s the disgusting part.” For a while Eliot heard nothing but his breathing. “Yecch. They’re all over.”

“You were telling me about Digital.”

“How do you think they died?” His voice sounded muffled, as if he was talking through his sleeve. “Did the bareword blow out their fucking brains? Like aneurysms? Because it doesn’t look like they died from aneurysms.”

“Why not?”

“They’re in clumps. Like they dragged themselves into groups. Then died.”

Eliot was silent.

“So . . . yeah, Digital.” The kid’s voice wavered. “Fourth advantage. We can whisper. A problem with old media has always been that we can’t control who’s watching. There’s self-selection—people don’t tune in for shows that rub against their beliefs—but you still get people from the wrong segment watching. And they think you’re peddling bullshit, of course, because you are, and sometimes they make a big deal out of that, and it feeds back to the target segment. Then you have message bleeding. In Digital, that problem goes away. You can say things to a user and no one else can hear, because it’s dynamically generated for that user. The next user, the site looks different. End result, you get people from different segments and they agree on nothing, literally nothing, except the site is a great source of unbiased information.” He took a breath. “I’m passing houses. Flat, ugly houses.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just hot.”

“Take a rest if you need it.”

“Why do you think they’re in groups?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think they could be families? Like . . . they had time to find their loved ones?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think that’s it. Something about the way . . . I don’t know. But I don’t think so.” Something scraped against the phone. “I need a drink.”

“Rest.”

The kid gulped water. “No. I want to get this done.” Time passed. “So . . . that’s Digital. Pretty great, huh?”

“It makes me wonder why we’re bothering with anything else.”

“Heh. Yeah. Well, we have a problem with unidentified users. Someone visits our site for the first time, and we have no idea who they are. We don’t know what to show them. We can make guesses, based on where they are geographically, and the software they’re using. But that’s suboptimal. We’re getting better. You know about social networking?”

“No.”

“You are . . . you need to get into this stuff, Eliot. It’s the future. Everyone’s making pages for themselves. Imagine a hundred million people clicking polls and typing in their favorite TV shows and products and political leanings, day after day. It’s the biggest data profile ever. And it’s voluntary. That’s the funny part. People resist a census, but give them a profile page and they’ll spend all day telling you who they are. Which is . . . good . . . for us . . . obviously . . .”

“What is it?”

“There’s a . . . ah, it’s okay.”

“What is it?”

“Gas station. Place is burned out. Cars all over. And one is . . . yeah, one is upside down. That’s . . . uh . . . not bad, huh, Eliot? A word that can flip cars?” He laughed, the pitch high. “That’s some pretty fucking impressive neurolinguistics, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are there bodies?”

“Of course there are bodies! I’m fucking knee-deep in bodies! Just assume there are bodies unless I tell you otherwise!”

“Understood.”

He panted. “I’m not knee-deep. I’m . . . sorry, I’m exaggerating. But there are a lot. A real lot.” He swallowed over and over. “How could there be so many? I mean, what did she do? How could she kill
everyone
?”

“Take a break.”

“Fuck!”

“Campbell. You need to calm down.”

“I can see the hospital. It’s just up the road. The road that’s fucking full of bodies.”

“You can come back. You don’t need to do this today.”

The kid took a shaky breath. “Yeah, I do, Eliot.”

“It’s not that important. Forget about Yeats.”

There was a snuffling sound. Eventually Eliot identified it as laughter. “You have definitely been away too long, Eliot. No question. ‘Forget about Yeats.’ Jesus fucking Christ.” He sucked air. “There’s a lot of damage here. Cars on the sidewalk. I saw this on the satellite pictures, but up close it’s . . . more real, I guess. On the computer they just looked badly parked. Like everyone was in a real hurry. But . . . they hit things. They’re all . . . all somewhere for a reason.” He swallowed. “Almost at the hospital. Looks . . . smaller . . . than I expected, actually. Like a library. I can see the entrance to the ER. Ambulance out front. I mean a van. A paramedic van, up on the curb. Front of the ER’s all glass, but I can’t see inside.” He heard the kid stop. “It’s real dark in there. Or grimy or something.” He hesitated. “I’m going around to the main entrance, okay?”

“Okay.”

“It’s just, I don’t think I need to mess with this black room if there’s another way in.”

“Agreed.”

“Okay. I’m coming up on the main doors. Shit. I don’t even know if this is better.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“Bodies. Desiccated bodies, piled against the glass. But I can see inside, at least. I’m at the doors. There’s . . .”

“What?” He waited. “Campbell?”

“There’s a sound.”

“What kind of sound?”

“I don’t know. Shut up a second; let me listen.” Time passed. “Like a hum.”

“A person?”

“No. Like a machine. Something electronic. But that can’t be right. There’s no power here. It’s not that loud. I’m going to open the doors.” There was a scraping. He heard the kid gagging. “
Fucking hell.
”

“What is it?”

“The
smell
.”

“Stop where you are.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ve stopped.”

“Look around. Tell me everything.”

“Seats. Reception desk. Shit on the walls.”

“Shit?”

“I mean stuff. Ads. Get your vaccinations. Eight out of ten mothers experience postnatal depression. When was your last prostate exam.”

“What about the sound?”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s flies. Ten billion flies.”

“Stand there a minute.”

Time passed. “She’s not here, Eliot. I told you. If there was anything bigger than a squirrel moving around in here, we’d know it.”

“Rabbit. There are no squirrels in Australia.”

“No . . .” The kid broke out in laughter. “No squirrels? Are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“Well maybe I’ll fucking move here! It’s starting to seem like fucking paradise!”

“Keep it together.”

The kid’s breathing came harsh and ragged. “You’re right. You’re right.” He steadied. “I’m going in.” There was a scrape. The ambient noise altered, thickening. “I’m inside.”

“Tell me everything.”

“There are lines on the floor. Colored lines. Man . . . well, I guess I’ll follow the red one. For Emergency. There are so many bodies . . . it’s hard to avoid them. Jesus fuck. I am never getting this smell off me.” Shuffling. “Doors are propped open with bodies. I’m in a corridor. It’s getting darker. The, ah . . . yeah, the lights don’t work. Just confirming that. There’s . . .”

“What?”

“There’s a skull with an ax in it.”

“An ax?”

“Yeah. A red ax. For fighting fires. I can see where someone pulled it out of the case. Someone broke the glass and took the ax out and buried it in this dude’s head. Hey? Eliot?”

“Yes?”

“I’m taking the ax. Okay? I just . . . I’d feel better if I had it with me. So I’m going to put down the phone for a minute to pick up the ax.”

“Okay.”

The phone went
clunk
. He heard the kid grunting, then a brief squeal. “You there?”

“I’m here.”

“I got it.” The kid laughed. “I just pulled a fucking ax out of a skull.” He exhaled. “I feel better. I feel kind of badass. Hey. I just had an idea. I’m going to take a picture of this shit, send it to you.”

“On your phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you do that without ending the call?”

“I don’t . . . uh . . . not sure.”

“Then don’t do that.”

“I’ll send it and call you right back.”

“Do not hang up the phone.”

“Okay. Jesus. Okay, okay. Just an idea. I can see the doors to Emergency up ahead. Double doors. Lots of . . . oh. I just figured out what this black stuff on the walls is.”

“Blood.”

“Yeah. Lots and lots of blood.” A pause. “Is that . . . ? Yeah. That’s them.”

“Who?”

“An extraction team. I know these guys. I mean . . . I saw their video. You know these people in black suits Yeats uses sometimes? The soldiers with the goggles? They’re supposed to be screened against compromise.”

“Yes.”

“It’s them. Some of them, anyway. They’re not wearing their goggles. They . . . they’re pretty messed up.”

“How?”

“They’re tangled. In each other. Their faces are black. Dried blood. They don’t have any eyes. I don’t know if . . . I don’t know if that’s decomposition or if . . . or what.” His voice shook. “They look like they went through a fucking shredder, Eliot.” He realized the kid was crying.

“Campbell—”

“But they weren’t poets. That’s the difference. I’m the king of defense.”

“Come back. You can report in what you’ve learned. Try again tomorrow.”

“No. No.”

“Yeats can wait another—”

The kid’s voice rose. “Eliot, you have no fucking idea what’s required, okay? You’ve been in the fucking desert and you don’t know. I am not telling Yeats I got this far and left. That is not fucking happening, and if you had half a clue you wouldn’t suggest it.”

“Not all of us agree with Yeats.”

The kid sucked air awhile. “I could have your head, Eliot. I could have your head on a plate for what you just said to me.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Seconds passed. “Doors ahead. Closed double doors. Sign says Emergency.”

“Campbell, please.”

“I want to hold the ax in two hands. I’m going to wedge the phone under my ear.” There was a scraping. His breath came in gulps. “Hey, Eliot?”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate it. Saying that about Yeats. That’s good of you.”

“Campbell, please stop.” Command words rose in his mind. Weak, over the phone. Probably pointless.

“If anything goes wrong, I want you to tell Yeats I was cool under pressure,” said the kid. “I’m opening the . . .” There was a squeal of hinges.

“What do you see?”

The kid’s breathing.

“Campbell? What do you see? Talk to me.”

The phone barked into his ear. He jerked it away. By the time he brought it back, there was nothing but dead air. It had hit the floor, he thought; that was the noise. The kid had dropped it.

He thought he heard a faint squeak: the kid’s shoes? “Campbell?” He said the kid’s name again, and again, and again, and there was nothing.

•   •   •

Eliot waited against the car as the sun settled behind him and heat bled from the air. He didn’t expect the kid to return. But he was giving him the chance.

Why are you here, Eliot? You see where the organization is going. You know what’s coming. Yet here you stand.

In an hour, it would be dark. Then he would climb into the car, drive four hours to his hotel, and phone Yeats. He would tell him Campbell had not come back, keeping his voice empty, and Yeats would express his sorrow, in the same tone.

Emily, Emily
, he thought.
Where did you go
?

Something shimmered on the road. He squinted. The haze had lifted, but the wind blew dust into his eyes. Then he was sure: Someone was coming. Eliot straightened. He raised a hand. The figure didn’t respond. There was something odd about the way it was moving. Its gait was lopsided. Not Campbell? But it had to be. There was no one else out here.

A minute passed. The haze condensed into Campbell. The reason he was lopsided was that he was carrying an ax.

Eliot returned to the car, opened the glove compartment, and retrieved his gun. By the time he returned to the fence line, Campbell was two hundred yards away. Eliot could see his expression, his focused emptiness.

He stuck the pistol into his waistband and cupped his hands around his mouth. “
Campbell! Stop!
”

The kid kept coming. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Wet, matted hair poked from beneath the
THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER
cap. He had lost a shoe.

“Campbell, drop the ax!”

For a moment, he thought the kid was obeying. But no: He was hefting the ax over his shoulder. Fifty yards. Close enough to smell.