Luke arrives at the table some time later with arched eyebrows. “No need to order for me,” he mutters.
I smile sweetly and then turn my eyes away from him.
“So these night terrors …” he starts.
“Don’t even think about it,” I snap.
“Clearly you’re not a morning person.”
“I’m just not a ‘have coffee with my stalker’ person.”
He snorts with laughter. “I’m a nice guy, I promise. Well, maybe not nice, but I certainly won’t hurt you.”
“What’s the purpose of this? Are you trying to sell me something?”
“I just want to… you know—talk. If you still want me to piss off after a coffee, I will.”
I stare, too suspicious to believe this could be the real reason.
Luke shrugs. “Haven’t you ever just wanted to get to know someone?”
Well, sure. But no one’s ever wanted to get to know me.
Our coffees arrive and I blow on mine before taking a big long gulp. Thank god for caffeine. I can’t drink it on the other side of the moon—it makes my nerves shatter. But on this side it practically saves my life, calming me right down.
I’m enjoying a moment of blissful quiet when he says, “You haven’t been cured, have you?”
I almost drop my cup. The rest of the café disappears, and Luke is the only other person left in the world. I turn slowly to meet his eyes. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He just gives me this calm look, like he’s daring me to deny it. Is this the real reason he brought me here?
“Of course I have,” I say faintly.
There is no sound except for our breathing, no color except for his eyes.
“Don’t be scared,” he tells me.
“I’m not,” I snap.
He searches my face. “I won’t tell anyone. Ever. I’m just curious.”
“How did you … How do you know?” My voice breaks.
Luke is bleak and full of hard edges. “It was obvious from the moment I saw you.”
“No one else has ever …”
“I’m sure they noticed,” he says. “But they were too uncomfortable to let themselves really see.”
“But you saw.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a glitch in my cure. Maybe it’s an incorrect response from my damaged brain: to want to be near someone who could hurt me.”
My heart starts beating fast. He doesn’t know how close he has come to the truth. “Maybe it is. Maybe you should fight that urge.”
“Josephine,” he says impatiently. “Don’t tell me you’re the last woman alive who hasn’t been brainwashed, but you believe the propaganda anyway. Because that would just be heartbreaking.”
I don’t know what to say. Here is a man who understands. He has been cured, but he still manages to see through the bullshit. When was the last time I heard anyone call it propaganda or brainwashing? I try to remember, then realize it was in the riots of ’53. Nobody protests anymore—that all stopped when the protesters were cured.
“I don’t believe the propaganda,” I tell him. “I don’t believe people are dangerous just because they can get angry. But in my case … things are different. I’m not … normal.”
“I know that—you’re the only person I’ve ever met who isn’t cured.”
“Not that. Not just that. I’m dangerous.”
He frowns. “Why?”
I shake my head and take another gulp of coffee. He needs to stop pulling at this thread. He’s not going to like what he unravels.
“How did you escape it?” he presses. “It’s impossible to avoid the cure.”
I shrug, aware that we are surrounded by drones who could alert the Bloods at any moment if they even suspect I’m uncured. “None of your business.” Truth is, I have no idea how I escaped it. Sometimes I feel like a shadow, or a memory—a creature invisible to the rest of the world. How else can I explain being ignored so thoroughly, even when it comes to the mandated injection that every citizen must receive?
“Fine. What do you do for work?” he asks, voice abruptly light. All the noise returns to the café and we are no longer the only two people in the world. We are surrounded by busy, bustling drones going about their calm, happy lives. Luke is one of those drones, I need to remind myself. Just because he knows he’s been brainwashed, doesn’t mean he’s free of it.
“Not much,” I reply. “I have a fake ID so I can do bar work here and there. Coffee shops. My last job was in a bookshop. That was nice.”
“Why so many jobs?”
“I get fired a lot.”
He smiles. “Right. Because you’re a crazed maniac who might lose her temper at the drop of a hat.”
My lips twitch. “They don’t know that. I’m just a crap employee.”
Luke grins.
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“What kind of lawyer?”
He shrugs. “State prosecutor.”
I sit up straight. “Then you work with the Bloods?”
“Sometimes.”
One of my secrets: I envy the Bloods. I envy them their freedom, but I hate what they choose to do with it. “What are they like?” I ask.
Luke considers carefully, absently stirring more sugar into his coffee. Lots of sugar. I watch, the action seeming out of place but I’m unsure why. “They’re colder than you’d expect,” he finally admits. “More … detached. They have all their emotions, but sometimes I think they’re more like drones than the drones are.”
“Why?”
“Because of what they see, I guess. Terrible things.”
“You must see those things too.”
“Not really. I see the aftermath. The fractured way society tries to deal with crime. But I don’t see what the Bloods do.”
They must be like me—they must.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Luke says, suddenly bleak. “The cure was designed to stop the riots. All the violence after the economy collapsed. But crime has doubled in the last few years. We’re building more jails than public housing. The media is strictly controlled. Nobody can know the truth.”
I swallow, my heartbeat jacked right up. “So why are you telling me?”
He smiles without any humour. This isn’t the gorgeous smile I saw this morning. This is infinitely dark. There are a thousand secrets behind his eyes, all the ghosts of the things he has seen. “Maybe I’m hoping someone will hear.”
My mouth opens. I’m having trouble looking away from his eyes. “And raise the alarm?”
That smile again. The twisted one. “It might be fun to run. Really run.”
“And when they catch you?”
“They wouldn’t.”
“Of course they would.” I realize abruptly what is happening here: we are testing each other. In a way, I have been running for most of my life and I have never been caught.
“Not if I don’t stop running,” he answers, as though he has read my thoughts.
I shake my head, glancing around. It occurs to me that I might be in danger. It’s lunacy to talk like this out in the open. “There’s nowhere the Bloods won’t find you.”
“I could go west.”
I snort. He’s so blasé, so careless with his words, as if it doesn’t mean anything at all to just announce that he will go west. “There is no west,” I say flatly. “Have you forgotten about the drought that wiped everyone out? The disease that followed it? The west is a wasteland.”
He doesn’t react, just watches me through hooded eyes. “This city is a wasteland.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say, lowering my voice. “You’ll get yourself thrown in jail if anyone hears you talking like this.”
“You like it,” he tells me bluntly, leaning forward. “I can see it in your face. You love the danger.”
I stare at him for a long moment, and then I let a slow smile curl my lips. “If this is your idea of danger, Luke,
then I feel sorry for you.”
There is a beat of silence, and then he grins wolfishly, leaning back in his chair and lighting up a cigarette.
“You can’t smoke inside,” I tell him.
“Watch me.”
I reach over and yank the cigarette out of his mouth. “I don’t know if you’re an arrogant prick, or if you’re just pretending to be one, but either way I’ve had enough.”
He looks at the cigarette in my hand, considering me. Then he slowly produces another one and lifts it to his lips, watching me the whole time.
I stand up and walk toward the door. He doesn’t stop me. I feel enraged, my heart beating like a timpani drum. I don’t need a bratty child in my life. I don’t need to spend time with an asshole drone.
Something smashes nearby, startling me. I turn to see that on the other side of the café there are two young men standing over the prone figure of a waitress. A pile of plates and food is smashed beneath her and she’s weeping, but the boys are smiling cruelly at her. The eyes of other patrons glance their way and then slide on, unmoved by the sight. I feel a wave of fury too deep to contain. I want to tear down the walls of this world we live in, I want to make people see that this is sick and wrong—nobody cares for each other anymore, nobody has any compassion, any sense of connection. I see things like this every day, but today I hate those boys like I’ve never hated anything, because within them is the kind of apathy that has destroyed the world.
I start moving, unsure what I will do. If I show anger, the Bloods will come, and I cannot risk getting captured and cured. But I’ve started moving beyond that thought, way beyond it. The waitress is sobbing and bleeding—I can see a shard of crockery protruding from her arm. One of the boys kicks the mess of food into her face and then crows with amusement. I know it isn’t his fault—this is something that has been done to him, stolen from him—and yet I want to hurt him badly. I want to force some perspective into him.
I have almost reached them when someone else moves first. It’s Luke. He appears behind the boys, taking them by the ears and wrenching them out the door of the café. Everyone watches silently as he dumps them on the ground. I don’t hear what he says to them, but it is spoken with quiet calm. The boys leave in a hurry, smiles gone from their faces. Luke returns, walking straight past me to the waitress. I watch, transfixed, as he helps the girl up and sits her down in a chair. He pulls the piece of plate out of her arm, wraps the wound in a dishcloth and then tells her to go to a hospital. Then he motions for one of the other waiters to clean up the mess, takes me by the elbow and calmly steers me back to my seat opposite him. All without even the hint of an expression on his face.
I stare at him, heart still thumping. My anger’s gone, replaced by a deep, curling thrill in my stomach. I have never, ever seen a drone help a stranger. I’ve never seen a drone admonish another drone. What is it about him that seems so different? I can’t put my finger on it, searching his face for a clue.
Nobody else in the café seems bothered by any of it. They’ve already gone back to their conversations.
“Why did you do that?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t look at me as he says, “So you wouldn’t.” And then, without an apology, he pulls out his packet of cigarettes and drops them into our jug of water. I watch the packet sink to the bottom.
I meet Luke’s eyes. “I don’t like to be tested.”
“I know that now. It’s why the smokes are wet.”
I hold his gaze for another moment, and then I pick up my menu.
*
We don’t talk for quite a while. We peruse the menus, and I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can’t focus on a single item I read. Luke waves his hand like some English monarch and a waiter arrives at a run. “Bacon and eggs, chorizo, hash browns and spinach,” he says. “And mushrooms. And maybe some baked beans. And more coffee. Josi, what do you want?”
“If there’s any food left in the world after that I’ll just have an omelette,” I mutter, my mind miles away. Several screens on the wall depict a primary school fair and another shows a flower festival, both full of smiling, happy people and bright colors.
“You know they film that shit in their studios,” Luke says lightly, eyes moving between the screens. I nod. Everyone knows that. But nobody cares. The news programs show people things that make them feel safe and happy, so they accept without questioning. I watch the children in the image flying a kite and laughing. In a few years those children will have their innocence stolen, their freedom torn out of their brains, but nobody ever sees images of that. Nobody ever asks the children if they want to be cured, if they’d rather have passion than calm.
An advertisement for enhancement drugs comes on screen. “Dream like savages, live like humans.”
I turn my eyes away, feeling sick. Once someone has been cured they don’t dream anymore. New drugs are being developed to create artificial dreams—dreams that have been cleared for safety, dreams that aren’t too stimulating—but the fact is: brains have been dulled.
“Would you take those?” I ask Luke.
“Dream stimulants? Fuck no.”
I search his face while he is distracted by the holograms. It comes to me with a jerking sensation. “You swear,” I exclaim. “Drones hardly ever swear. And you put sugar in your coffee. Drones don’t care about taste.”
“That’s a myth,” he replies mildly, still not looking at me. “An old one. Why would they put sugar on the table if no one wants it?”
Good point. “What about the swearing?”
Luke shrugs. “I must be a rebel.” Then he smiles and I can’t help laughing.
I try to stop, reminding myself I know nothing about this guy. Haven’t I longed for someone to talk to though? Haven’t I yearned for decent conversation? Wished for a friend?
Jesus, how pathetic am I? I can’t have friends if everyone in the world is a drone, because I can’t be friends with people I hate. I just need to keep reminding myself of that, or else Luke is going to continue with that smile and that gaze, and all the lonely, stupid pieces of me will respond with an eagerness that could get us both killed.
I finish my coffee and run my finger around the lip of the mug. I regret sitting in the corner—I feel trapped. There aren’t many places to look except at Luke. He’s not watching me, thankfully. He’s sitting back in his seat, long limbs lazily taking up all the space, reading a paper. A frown line appears on his forehead, right between his eyes. It’s quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I hate him for it.
“Want a section?” he asks absently without looking up.
Get up. Just get up and leave. You know better than this.
But I don’t get up. I ask, “The crossword?”
He retrieves the back section and passes it to me. Then he grabs a waitress and pinches her pen in an extremely charming way that makes her melt into the floor. Passing me the pen, he promptly goes back to reading the sport section, apparently oblivious that he’s just made the girl fall a little in love with him.
We sit quietly until our food comes, both intent on our papers. As our plates arrive, Luke glances at my crossword and his eyes widen. “Holy shit. You’ve nearly finished it!”
I flash him a sly smile. “Not just a pretty face, pal.”
“I’m becoming aware of that. Oh, baby, I love chorizo.”
He inhales his food with a look of delight. I have no appetite, but try to eat anyway, because I can’t remember the last time someone bought me a meal. For some reason, despite still having no idea why we’re here together, I find myself simply appreciating the company. If I want to continue appreciating his company, however, I’m going to have to make sure he never finds out the truth. The fact that he knows I’m uncured is bad enough.
“How old are you?” I ask him.
“How old do I look?”
I shrug.
“Twenty-six. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
He spits
out his coffee. It’s extremely amusing. “Eighteen? Good god.”
My lips curl into a smile. “Why should that be a problem, Mr I’m Not Trying To Hit On You?”
“All right, clever girl,” he laughs, leaning forward. “I was twenty percent hitting on you, eighty percent worried about you.”
“And now?”
“You’re a teenager, Josi. You’re not ready to get hit on by me.”
I roll my eyes. “If you say so.” I’m somewhat relieved, somewhat confused. If he doesn’t want to hook up with me, then why is he here? What does he get out of this exchange? Because I haven’t been particularly nice, that’s for sure.
“So cynical,” he sighs.
“I am not!”
“Right now you’re sitting there wondering why I’m here, assuming that nobody does anything nice without wanting something in return.”
“Anything nice?” I repeat slowly. Suddenly I’m angry. I stand up. “I don’t know what you think of me, or what you’ve assumed, but I’m not a fucking charity case. You think you’re doing something nice, but you’re just making a fool of yourself.”
I storm out of the café, tripping over his long, sprawled out legs. He reaches for me but I snake around him and run.
Luke
I’m the stupidest man on the planet. I pay the bill and run after her, but she’s damn quick. She’s already locked the door behind her, but I bang on it and shout at her until my throat is hoarse. Finally I take my tools out of my pocket and pick the lock on her door.
I know.
But I’m losing my mind, standing out here in the disgusting hallway, imagining her behind the locked door. I can’t seem to do anything to stop my hands as they break into her home. The apartment block is so old that it doesn’t even have a touch lock modulated to her fingerprints, just an ancient metal tumble lock.
The door finally swings open and I stop dead. She’s curled up on her bed with the pillow over her head so she won’t hear me shout for her. The studio apartment is the tiniest, most revolting place I’ve ever seen. Although the term ‘studio apartment’ is a loose one. Her home could more aptly be described as a rat-infested, falling-to-pieces, unfurnished hovel. The walls are water marked, the carpet is filthy, her mattress doubles as a couch and the kitchen is more of a sink situation. She doesn’t seem to own anything except a suitcase stuffed full of clothes. My heart aches at the scene laid out before me. She looks so small, lying there like that.
Fury: Book One of the Cure (Omnibus Edition) Page 3
