Talker 25 (17 page)

Worse. “How do you know what feet taste like?”

“A boy’s gotta have some secrets.” He arches an eyebrow, eyes my feet, laughs.

I grin, raise my bottle. “Here’s to feet! May they taste good, be strong, and one day carry us home.”

He raises his bottle. “To feet!”

We chat long into the flight, avoiding topics that make
us think about our friends or families or the bleak future that likely awaits us. We talk to Baby at regular intervals. Sometimes she brightens, a brief heartbeat of intensity, but that’s it. We attempt to contact his dragon acquaintances. Nothing. Either they’re dead, or the CENSIR’s blocking us. After a few moments of dreary silence, we go back to rehashing our favorite movies, foods, subjects in school. . . .

I fight sleep, order him to tell me about his childhood. Instead he recites poetry. Somewhere in the middle of Robert Frost’s “Fire and Ice,” I drift off.

When I wake, I’m shivering. It was nowhere near this cold before. James watches me from across the aisle, his face worn with fatigue. It doesn’t look like he’s slept.

“I think we’ve begun our descent,” he says.

“Deeper into hell?”

“Something like that.”

Within minutes, we touch down. The ramp opens to a cloudless sky and an arctic world. An undulating howl of wind envelops us. It sets my teeth chattering, and in a matter of seconds my fingers and toes are numb.

James tries to smile. “Who knew . . . hell . . . was this . . . cold?”

Four All-Blacks in snow gear rush into the plane, surround Baby, and remove the arm-thick bolts that attach her
sledge to the chassis. The scales on their helmets twinkle in the sunlight. Red and green, mostly. A spot of blue here and there. I try not to think that soon silver will be there too.

While a tractor pulls Baby from the cabin, the soldiers bundle us in wool-lined boots, thick gloves, knit caps, and faux-fur jackets. I stop shivering, but the bite of the wind still cuts through everything.

I stare after Baby. “Whatever you’re going to do to her, please make it quick.”

The nearest soldier glances over his shoulder, frowns, but doesn’t respond. They load James and me into the back of a Humvee. The driver, a burly man, pulls the ski mask down to expose his mouth and regards us with eyes as frosty as the weather.

“I’m Major Alderson. You are Talker Twenty-Five,” he says through the steel mesh that separates us. He nods at James. “You are Talker Twenty-Six. Both of you have been conscripted by the U.S. Army to help eliminate the dragon infestation. You will cooperate, or you will suffer dire consequences. Welcome to Camp George.”

“Antarctica,” I guess, looking at the hula-girl stick-on clock mounted to the dash.
23:09.
Almost midnight. The sun’s out—which must mean we’re in the southern hemisphere. Even with the car’s heater going full blast, I’m still cold. “Why bring us here?”

“Invisibility,” James mutters.

“Correct,” the major says. “If you somehow managed to send one of your fire-breathing friends an image of our location, they wouldn’t know where to come rescue you because everything down here in the frozen suck looks the same.”

On that wonderful note, the major puts on his sunglasses and backs out of the plane. Dragon jets and artillery flank the runway. We pass a row of hangars, but otherwise there’s nothing around us except endless tracts of ice.

The wind moans at us, kicks up snow devils along the runway, pushes the Humvee from side to side. We turn onto a barely visible road that leads toward green and red lights in the distance.

“What are you doing to them?” James says through gritted teeth.

“Research. They have amazing thermal control.”

The lights take shape. Dragons. Collared and dying, in giant birdcages. Macabre decorations for the median. A couple of brighter ones scream at us.

The last cage in the line contains a pair of glowless Reds huddled together. “Radio go,” the major says. “HQ, we’ve got snowkill on Dragons Forty-Seven and Forty-Eight. Please be advised.”

I grunt and press my head to the window. Our cage may be larger, but what are the odds James and I end up like those two dead Reds?

The patter of gunfire reaches my ears. Along the side of the road, men fire machine guns at a dimming Green strapped to a freestanding wall. It’s muzzled. Blood trickles from its wounds onto a field of snow more crimson than white.

“Isn’t it a bit late for torture?” James says.

The major laughs. “No rest for the weary. Gotta get in what we can while the weather’s good.”

If that steel mesh didn’t separate us, I’m pretty sure James would strangle him. I reach for his hand, but he shakes me off. “You’re a monster,” he says. “You’re all monsters!”

“Control yourself, Twenty-Six.”

James tugs at the door handle, but we’re locked in. He jerks harder, kicks at the steel separator.

The major jams the brakes. The Humvee slides to a stop. James keeps kicking. The major picks up a computer tablet, taps a couple of buttons. James convulses, flails, goes limp. His breaths come in jagged bursts as he continues to glare at the major.

“You’re only making this harder on yourself, Twenty-Six.” The major shows us the tablet screen.
CENSIR for Talker 26 (Telepathy: Disabled)
is written in block letters above a 3D image of a brain. James’s name, national registration number, and biometric data occupy the top left corner. Flashing red text draws my attention to the right side of the screen.
Current synaptic state: violent, dangerous to others.

He thumbs the bottom of the tablet. Two columns appear beside the brain. The first has five buttons: off, record, transmit, inhibit, and incapacitate. The inhibit one is depressed. The other contains a rainbow-colored slider and adjacent button labeled Shock. The slider is set to green.

“It can be much worse. Are we clear?” The major adjusts the slider to maximum red, lets his finger hover above the Shock button until James nods.

A couple minutes later, we drive through a pair of dragon skeletons held together by wires and rods. Their wings connect in an arch, from which hangs a wooden sign.
WELCOME TO GEORGETOWN
. Beneath it, in smaller, knife-scratched letters:
A NO
-
FLY ZONE
.

Ahead, artillery and missile launchers split the road in two. Buildings press in on either side, rising up from the ice on concrete stilts. Slanted roofs, black, windowless, they are indistinguishable except for their size.

And the trophies. They’re everywhere. Smaller bones formed into military insignia on doors and walls. Wings along the longer edifices. A scale pelt here, a mosaic of fangs there.

“That’s the cafeteria,” the major says. Talons dangle from the eaves. He points across the road at a gargantuan building that spans an entire block and is at least four stories high. Dragon skulls ring the top, hollow eyes looking down on us. “ER . . . Examination and Research. We
do some of our most important work in there.”

We pull up to a nondescript building. Alderson lets me out, but closes the door in James’s face.

“These are the female barracks,” he says. “You feel that cold, Twenty-Five?”

I nod.

He walks up the steps, enters a code on the numeric keypad. The door unlocks. He doesn’t open it. After a long minute of frigid silence, he says, “The closest place that might welcome a stranger is more than three hundred miles from here. That’s assuming you head in the right direction and the weather cooperates.”

If not for my teeth chattering, I might laugh. He thinks I’d actually try to escape on foot.

He ducks his head against the wind and ushers me into a room that resembles a small movie theater with a center aisle and beds instead of chairs. The only light comes from a massive thinscreen on the far wall.

I almost scream.
Kissing Dragons
, episode forty-three. Several girls, all wearing CENSIRs and black scrubs, sit on the beds nearest the screen, seemingly enthralled by the hunt for Killzilla, the Terror of Tokyo. Everybody else appear to be asleep.

Major Alderson removes my handcuffs. “Give me your jacket, boots, cap, and gloves.”

My heart sinks. It’s warm in the room—nobody seems uncomfortable in their short sleeves—but without proper attire, my fairy-tale vision of breaking out, releasing Baby, and flying off into the sunset with James seems even more implausible.

Once I’m down to my white dress, the major leaves. The moment the door shuts, a statuesque blonde claps her hands.

“Wakey, wakey, everyone. Our newest sister is here,” she says. I cringe as she checks me out, a smirk spreading across her face.

Lit by the screen behind them, the other girls remind me of ghosts as they rise from their beds. Most of them look my age, though a couple who lurk at the edges are definitely younger.

The blonde positions herself front and center.

“I’m Evelyn, Talker One,” she says, emphasizing the title more than her name. She introduces the half-dozen pale girls clustered around her, giving their names, then numbers, which is unnecessary since they’re stenciled on their uniforms. They smile at me like I’ve shown up at summer camp a day late, but don’t you worry, we’re gonna have lots of fun.

A light-skinned black girl pantomimes turning a dial. “Let’s ratchet the freak down a little bit, girls. She’s got plenty of scary ahead of her without the Stepford routine.”

“Says the drunken whore,” Evelyn says, smile never
faltering. “We must get you changed.” She snaps her fingers. Five scurries off.

“This drunken whore’s name is Lorena,” the black girl whispers to me. “I will respond to Drunken Whore, but only on Wednesdays.” She runs a hand beneath the number stenciled on her scrubs. “Or Talker Two, if you’d prefer.”

I like her. “Melissa.”

“Do you believe in Jesus Christ as our lord and savior?” asks a mousy girl with a Bible clutched in her hands. Talker Thirteen.

Jesus Christ.

“Of course she does, Pam,” Lorena says as I stumble for an answer. To me: “Dragons are the devil’s creation.”

Pam scowls. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“You bet,” I say. She doesn’t look convinced. Lorena winks at me. I force a smile. “Everybody knows dragons are the devil’s creation. Only faith in Jesus can save us from them.”

The scowl deepens, but Pam backs off.

Five returns with a pair of black scrubs, which Evelyn presents to me. “You want to—”

A scrabbling noise interrupts her. A child who can’t be older than twelve emerges from beneath one of the beds. Her eyes dart everywhere. “She’s not a vulture in disguise, is she?”

“No, Allie, she’s one of us,” Lorena says. “This is Melissa.”

“I’m Twenty-One,” the girl says. “You don’t want to screw with me, no, no.”

“Twenty-One, that is not proper language for a young lady,” Pam says.

Twenty-One sticks out her tongue, then flicks her off. She comes closer, circles around me, sniffing.

“It’s best not to agitate her,” Lorena whispers.

“You’re not a chocolate thief, are you?” Twenty-One asks. She glowers at Sixteen, a girl with a bandage across her nose. Sixteen, who’s got at least two years, five inches, and thirty pounds on Twenty-One, shudders and ducks behind Lorena.

“Be nice, Allie,” Lorena says.

Twenty-One purses her lips, looks back to me, wrinkles her nose. “You don’t smell like one, no, no.”

“I’m not.”

She shrugs. Her eyes drift to my chest and widen. “Ooh. Can I have that? Can I, can I?”

I follow her intense gaze to the dragon brooch. I’d forgotten about the stupid thing. “Gladly.” She runs to a corner, settles into a crouch, and strokes the silver brooch like it’s a pet.

“What’s with her?” I ask.

“Allie was reconditioned. Sometimes it backfires,” Lorena says. She turns to the others. “Back to bed, everyone. Show’s over.” Evelyn’s minions shrink under Lorena’s gaze, but don’t retreat until the blonde nods her okay.

“You want to sleep on our side, Twenty-Five?” Evelyn gestures at the right half of the room. Based on the silence and stares I’m getting, this is a critical decision. An easy one, though.

“I think I’ll stay over here.”

Murmurs come from Evelyn’s crowd. She raises her hand for quiet. “Nice meeting you, Twenty-Five. Remember, actions have consequences,” she says, way too perky, then turns on her heel and marches to bed.

“She been reconditioned, too?” I ask.

Lorena laughs. “Nah, she’s just drunk a lot of the Kool-Aid.” She nods toward the screen. “We better get moving. This is the last episode of the night. Once the message boards go off, we’re in the dark.”

I glance at the screen. Frank, Kevin, Mac, and L.T. are skulking up Mount Kumotori. There’s a red glow in the distance. Several of Evelyn’s girls watch, wide-eyed, hands over mouths or clutched in worry. The fab four open fire, and the girls cheer.

“They’re rooting for the soldiers?” I say. “Is that what that crap about choosing sides was about?”

“Pretty much,” Lorena says.

“And we’re on the other side?”

“No, we’re on the stay-out-of-trouble side.”

“Sounds like something my dad would say. . . . Where are the adults?”

She shrugs. “Somewhere else. Most of us had parent talkers. One or both. None of them showed up here.” She looks away, shakes her head. “Probably a good thing.”

She leads me through a door at the back to a restroom with a shower, a pair of stalls, and another thinscreen. A girl sits on the tiles, entranced.

“That’s Claire,” Lorena says as we walk past. Claire, Talker Fifteen, a thick girl with dark fuzz on her upper lip, waves a bandaged hand at me when I say hi, but otherwise remains hypnotized by the show.

“Reconditioned?” I whisper.

“Yep,” Lorena says. I’m about to pile my scrubs on the floor, but she takes them from me. “The first rule of survival here: keep your clothes as clean as possible. Laundry only comes once a week. I’m serious. Lots of things suck here in Georgetown—”

“Suck?”

“Yeah, euphemism, I know. Be happy with what you can, control what you can . . . like your clothes. Unless you’re offering an invitation, change here.” She guides me
to a stained section of tiles adjacent to the shower, motions toward the shadowed ceiling. “Infrared cameras monitor our activities. This is pretty much the only blind spot in this place.”