Zeroes

by Scott Westerfeld

  “Yeah, but I’m wearing different clothes.” Ethan wondered if this was true, and looked down. Yep. Some part of him had remembered Thibault lending him a shirt. A really nice one. “I may not be as invisible as you, but my face doesn’t exactly stick in people’s minds, you know?”

  “Still not a good idea, Ethan. If you want, I can go down and borrow a phone to call her. But you stay here.”

  “Right. My mom’s gonna love that, some stranger phoning her, saying, ‘I’ve got your kid, lady. Trust me, he’s okay, but he can’t talk to you.’ ”

  Thibault frowned. “Maybe not my best plan. But you can’t leave this room. The last time the cops picked you up, we had to vaporize every computer in the CCPD to get you out!”

  Ethan swore. The whole insane rescue plan hadn’t been his idea.

  “Just let me leave a message for her. With everything that happened at the police station today, she won’t even be home.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Thibault said. “When angry drug dealers are all in bed.”

  Ethan groaned. Tomorrow was too late. It was too late already. If his sister, Jess, found out he’d disappeared for a whole day, she’d kick his ass all the way from Afghanistan.

  There was an itch in his throat—the voice ready with some devastating insult to paralyze Thibault where he stood. The guy might think he was Mr. Zen, but the voice always knew how to crumple anyone with even a sliver of self-doubt. . . .

  “Don’t you dare,” Thibault said.

  Ethan swallowed hard, forcing the voice all the way back down his throat. “Relax. I promised you I wouldn’t. I can call her tomorrow.”

  Thibault didn’t move. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I just need some sleep.”

  Thibault nodded. “I guess we both do.”

  Ethan managed a tired smile. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a paperweight, but at least he’d kept his promise to Thibault. The voice had done enough damage today.

  Plus, Ethan had a better idea.

  He said good night and headed toward the door to the suite’s smaller bedroom, repeating his plan to himself again and again. He broke it down to a series of actions, nothing to do with . . . that guy. Or anyone, really.

  It was just a list of things he had to do.

  Ethan went into his bathroom and drank one glass of water after another, until he was certain that his bladder would wake him up in a couple of hours. And before crawling into bed, he took a pen from his bedside table and wrote on the notepad . . .

  Go down to the street and call Mom.

  Be as quiet as you can.

  Ignore the fucking notes.

  CHAPTER 31

  MOB

  FIG WAS ALWAYS EASY TO spot. He was barely five feet tall and wore a white T-shirt that glowed blue in Fuse’s lights. He ate only protein and worked out two hours every day.

  Kelsie gave him a brief wave as she approached the bar. She still sizzled from the Boom, like she could fly across the crowd herself. The music here was sharper, a fierce stab of electronica with a thudding undertow of drum. Kelsie felt it in the soles of her feet and in the hollow cavity of her chest.

  But the sight of Fig’s expression brought her back to reality.

  Her dad was in trouble. And so was she.

  “Kelsie.” Fig shook his head, lips pursed. “How you doing, kid?”

  She climbed onto an empty bar stool and pushed up from the bottom rung. “Not so good.”

  Fig picked up a glass and started polishing. His deep voice cut through the music. “What a train wreck. Cops everywhere, looking for the guys who escaped. Your dad okay?”

  Kelsie settled back onto the bar stool and nodded, not wanting to shout.

  I saw him, she mouthed.

  Fig’s expression stilled. Years of working in Fuse had made him an expert lip-reader. He scanned the room. Then he put the glass down and gestured her toward a door at the end of the bar.

  Kelsie followed him into a cramped, badly lit hallway. The flimsy walls shivered with the music.

  “Saw the news at the gym,” Fig said. “Your dad’s photo came up, I almost face-planted on the treadmill. You know he was planning this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Ain’t that some crazy shit?” Fig shook her shoulder. “I would’ve broke his arm to stop him.”

  Kelsie nodded, unable to talk. Here in this empty hallway, away from the safety of the crowd, her dread was an icicle in her chest.

  “And that computer thing at the police station,” Fig said. “So much weird today.”

  “Yeah.” Kelsie glanced at the closed doors in the hallway, hoping no one was listening. His bar jobs might’ve made Fig good at lip-reading, but his hearing was terrible. His voice boomed even when he was whispering. “Is there somewhere . . .”

  Fig led her into a crowded storeroom, packed with beer kegs and shelves of stacked glasses, piles of ledgers and receipts. At the far end of the room was a desk. A big guy sat there with his back to them, counting money into a bag.

  “Don’t mind him,” Fig whispered loudly. “There’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.”

  “Okay.” Kelsie let out a breath. “My dad needs that money you owe him.”

  “I’ll bet. I was sorta holding it for him. Until he got out from under with the Bagrovs.”

  The guy at the desk stiffened, still with his back to them. “Those shitheads!”

  Fig didn’t seem to notice. “Your dad hasn’t told you any of this, I guess.”

  Kelsie shook her head. “Not till today.”

  “New in town. Into drugs, gambling, the whole deal. Really ticked off the local establishment.”

  He glanced toward the guy at the desk, who Kelsie figured was part of the local establishment.

  She’d always known that side of the dance scene. She could tell when a new drug came to town. It changed the flavor of the crowd, made it light and airy or hard and mean. Chemicals had never been her thing.

  It must have shown on her face, because Fig gave her a half smile and said, “Not all of us are naturals like you. Some of us need that extra oomph.”

  “I’m not judging.” She held up both hands. “Can we stay on topic?”

  “Sorry. Your dad always talked about moving up.” Fig looked disgusted. “But the stuff the Bagrovs got him selling? Worst drugs on the street.”

  Kelsie felt the last strand connecting her to the feel-good dance crowd snapping. “Heroin?”

  “I wish. Stuff’s called krokodil. Dissolves your body.”

  “Wait. What?” Kelsie glanced at the guy at the desk. He was still counting cash as if they weren’t there, totally focused.

  “It’s made from acid,” Fig said. “Like, literally. Your skin rots away where you inject it. You’re walking around and people can see your bones. Then your liver gives up.”

  “That sounds crazy, Fig. Like something they’d make up to scare kids.”

  “I seen it happen.”

  Kelsie felt herself breathing harder. “My dad would never sell anything that bad.”

  Fig shrugged. “Probably didn’t know what he was getting into. The Bagrovs aren’t exactly known for long-term relationships, you know? Can’t settle too long with a product that kills people. That’s why they came to Cambria. They needed new customers.”

  And new employees, like her dad, Kelsie realized. Disposable people to do their dirty work.

  “I can’t believe he’d do something that stupid,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Fig said sadly. “But didn’t he rob a bank today?”

  Kelsie stared at the floor. Sure, her dad had been running cons as long as she could remember, but she could’ve sworn blind that he would never rob a bank or kill anyone, with a shotgun or a needle.

  “Listen, Kelsie. I can get you that three grand tomorrow. If you need a place to stay, you’re welcome at mine.”

  “I’m staying with friends,” she said, and Fig frowned protectively. She gave him a grateful smile. “But
maybe. Depends how long before I can go home, I guess.”

  “Things’ll get back to normal. In the meantime, if you need anything . . .”

  “There’s one other weird thing,” Kelsie said, “that maybe you know about. My dad said there was a kid in the bank, my age. He knew all their names, like he was waiting for them there.”

  “No way.” Fig shook his head. “That job was tight. Everybody was shocked when the news hit.”

  But at the desk, the other guy in the room had frozen. A fifty-dollar bill was in his hand, clutched so tight his fingers had turned white.

  Slowly he swiveled in his chair and fixed Kelsie with a piercing blue stare.

  “Did you say a kid?” the man asked. “At the bank?”

  “Yeah?”

  The guy became perfectly still. It was uncanny, because she could’ve sworn he hadn’t been moving anyhow. But then he must’ve stopped moving some more. Maybe he’d stopped breathing.

  Then he rose to his feet. Slowly, like it took a huge effort to lift his body. He squeezed through the storeroom toward them, turning sideways so he could fit his shoulders between the shelves and the kegs.

  Kelsie backed as far as the narrow space would allow her. It was like watching a truck coming right at her on the emptiest street in the world.

  Even with Fig next to her, Kelsie felt her fear building, flowing out and into the crowd down the hallway. She felt it swirling into the people listening to the synthesized rattle and hum that shook the shelves to either side of the advancing wall of flesh.

  “Craig,” Fig said, “this is my good friend Kelsie.”

  Craig ignored him. “You know that kid? The one from the video?”

  “The video?” Kelsie turned blankly toward Fig and then back to Craig. No one spoke.

  It had been a really confusing day already, so she took it slow. She made sure to speak very carefully, because she didn’t want to miss any details about this guy who’d screwed up her dad’s life.

  “Um, Craig?”

  “That’s me,” he replied. “And I’m asking, do you know the kid in the bank video? ”

  Kelsie took a breath. “What video?”

  CHAPTER 32

  ANONYMOUS

  THIBAULT WAS GOING TO DIE in this hospital.

  He’d known it as soon as they’d put him in this crowded children’s ward. His connection with Mom was fading fast.

  “Don’t leave me!” he wept from his bed. “Don’t go away!”

  “I’ve got your brothers to get off to school tomorrow,” she said, already looking at the door. “It’s their first day back.”

  “There are too many people here!” He knew he’d disappear. He’d explained it to her so many times, but she never remembered.

  “The nurses will take care of you, honey.” His mother bent and kissed him, and tried to pull away.

  He grabbed her arm and hung on for dear life. “You’ll forget me!”

  “That’s just the fever talking. You’ll be home again in a day or two, Thibault. We’ll visit you tomorrow.”

  “You won’t.”

  A passing nurse paused, stared at them both. “You’re a big boy to be acting like this, aren’t you?”

  Embarrassed, Thibault had let go of his mother’s arm. She’d left the ward without looking back.

  And of course she hadn’t come back.

  The fever got worse. Three days later his mouth felt like it was made of parched flannel. Midmorning had been the last time he’d had a drink, when the doctor had made his rounds and kicked up a fuss about how dehydrated Thibault was. Three patients had just been discharged, so for a while the ward had been empty enough for Thibault to be noticed.

  But then, after that wonderful blue plastic cup of water, after that sad little hospital meal, which he could have eaten three of, after that nurse patting him and telling him not to cry and going to find him a treat and never coming back, those beds had filled up, and he’d been forgotten again.

  He was going to die here.

  He had a little alarm button, but every time he called a nurse with it, she’d walk straight past him. Or hear him beg for water and walk away nodding, but never bring it.

  Five minutes later he’d be calling out, “You forgot me!” as she whisked past, carrying someone else’s bag of saline, or pain pills for that whiny kid near the window. His voice was fading as thirst cracked his lips. Soon no one would hear him at all.

  Thirteen years old, and he was going to die. Maybe then his power would fade, and the staff would notice his corpse at last.

  Now, four years later, he stared at the ceiling of the penthouse suite of the Hotel Magnifique, recalling the moment when he’d realized, through the muddle of fever, that he was on his own. Not just there in that children’s ward, fighting to crawl to the bathroom for a long drink from the tap, but everywhere and forever.

  He knew then that he had to have a plan. A plan for getting well without help from the nurses and doctors. A plan for getting home. And a plan, eventually, for leaving home, to cope with what he was.

  He needed control, over his own space and his own mind.

  And when he got it, Thibault had told himself, his teeth chattering in a chill between flushes of fever, he would always see what was going on around him. He would never be blind, like those nurses and doctors walking past.

  A small sound shook him from his thoughts. A rustle from the next room.

  Thibault sat up, groggy and dry-throated, grabbing for the bedside table. He still couldn’t sleep without a glass of water within reach.

  Another sound, a familiar click—the penthouse door closing.

  Thibault bolted out of bed and into the main room. The note on the door had been unstuck and dropped onto the floor. He wasted precious seconds checking the other bedroom. By the time he looked into the hall, the elevator doors were closing.

  “Rat-weasel,” he said softly, his voice still dry.

  * * *

  Five minutes later Thibault was out on the street in a Hotel Magnifique bathrobe. He would’ve lost too much time putting on pants, or even shoes.

  It was Friday night, only a few blocks from Ivy, and even this late the street was full of people, electric with their wanting. They wanted to get drunk, to get laid, to be seen—they wanted to be wanted.

  Needles of curiosity flicked across him, people’s eyes caught for a moment by the barefoot guy in the plush white bathrobe. But Thibault kept his mantra going in a steady murmur—Form is void and void is form; nothing to see here, folks—cutting away people’s notice as quickly as it formed.

  Down the street, at the intersection with Ivy, a pair of cops scanned the crowd. Awareness crackled out of them. The police were still on alert, of course, looking for the prisoners who’d escaped.

  Thibault quickened his pace.

  It took an endless, awful minute to find Ethan. He was in among the Ivy Street crowds, walking up to a group of women in sparkly dresses and five-inch heels.

  Thibault didn’t intervene. He might as well let Ethan get this done. The guy had the voice, so it wouldn’t take long to wangle a phone and reassure his mom. As soon as he did, Thibault would yank him back to the Magnifique.

  “Um, you guys?” Ethan was sputtering. “I mean, girls. Could I, like . . .”

  The girls just laughed, gliding around him in that practiced way women avoided drunk and obnoxious men.

  “Seriously?” Thibault muttered. Why hadn’t Ethan used the voice? Had he decided to grow a conscience now, of all times?

  But then one of the girls turned back. She snapped a picture of Ethan with her phone and whispered something to her friends. Thibault sidled a little closer to them.

  “Was that him?” one said.

  Which was weird. But Thibault couldn’t leave Ethan to follow it up. The guy was already approaching a straight couple walking arm in arm.

  Use the voice, you idiot, Thibault thought as hard as he could.

  Ethan did. His whole posture chang
ed.

  “Hey, if you let me borrow your phone for two seconds, you can take a selfie with me!”

  The couple stopped, stared at him.

  He gave them a cool, radiant smile. “Yeah, it’s me all right, the guy in the bank video! Seriously. Give me one minute with your phone and we can do a selfie.”

  “Oh man, it is you! Sure, I guess,” the guy said with a laugh, and handed over his phone.

  What the hell was going on?

  The couple whispered to each other as Ethan turned back into Ethan, dialing and sputtering into the phone.

  “Hey, I’m staying with a friend, this guy Tee. Lives real close to the center of town, so I’m . . . you know, gonna crash here. But I busted my phone, so you won’t be able to reach me . . .”

  Spit it out. Thibault scanned the street. Was that skinny guy staring at Ethan? Did he look like a vengeful drug dealer?

  “Okay, let’s do this!” Ethan had turned back to the couple, full of the voice again, beaming like a celebrity greeting his fans. He stood between the two while they snapped half a dozen photos from arm’s length.

  The moment they lowered the phone, Thibault stepped up and grabbed Ethan. “Come on, man. You know you shouldn’t be out here.”

  “What the hell?” said the woman, all three of them staring at the madman in a bathrobe who’d come out of nowhere.

  But a gleam of guilty recognition soon dawned in Ethan’s eyes.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry, er, Teebo. I forgot.”

  Thibault didn’t answer, just dragged Ethan back toward the Magnifique.

  Whatever had happened, whatever this video was about, he was pretty sure the whole situation had just gotten much, much worse.

  CHAPTER 33

  CRASH

  WHEN SHE WOKE UP THE next morning, it took a moment for Chizara to remember. At first all she knew was bliss.

  She’d slept hard and deep, untroubled by her parents’ feeble wifi network. The yards were big out here in suburban Cambria, and the nettlesome fingertips of the neighbors’ devices hardly reached her room at all. For once, all those itches were well and truly scratched.