The Block

by Ben Oliver

  “What is it?” Pander asks.

  “Everything,” Igby says. “Everything, I have it all, or I will have it all! All the information we’ll need.”

  “Malachai?” I ask, getting to my feet and walking over to the computer. “Woods?”

  “Not yet,” Igby replies, “but I should know within two or three hours.”

  I look down at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen: 7:36 a.m. I must have slept for six hours!

  “What do we do until then?” I ask.

  “We need a plan,” Pod says. “It’s getting harder and harder to survive out in the city. Happy and the Alts are mobilizing; they’re getting more organized and they’re looking for us. If we’re going to beat them, we’ll need an army.”

  “We need to find the Missing,” Pander says.

  “Well, yeah,” Igby replies, “but if Happy can’t find them, how the fuck are we supposed to find them?”

  “You know, you don’t have to say fuck every second word,” Pander replies, narrowing her eyes.

  “I fucking know, I’m just fucking making a fucking point!” Igby replies, and then smiles brightly at Pander.

  “All right,” Akimi says, “so how do we find them?”

  I turn to Akimi, who looks to Igby. Igby shrugs and looks at Pod; Pod stares forward with a faint smile on his face, unaware that anyone is looking at him.

  “Awfully quiet in here,” he says, shifting his weight.

  “Malachai would have known what to do,” Akimi says, frowning.

  A few months ago a comment like this would have made me jealous. I would have resented the fact that Malachai was always seen as the leader, as the one who everyone turned to for answers, but now I agree with Akimi—I wish he was here to tell us what we’re going to do next, how we’re going to succeed.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice that everyone is now looking at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What do we do?” Pod asks.

  I look from Pod to Pander to Igby, genuinely shocked that they’re looking to me for answers. “I don’t know,” I say. “Really, I don’t know. Igby, you should be making these decisions, you’re the one who’s decoding Happy’s plans. Or, Akimi, you just stormed the city and brought back supplies single-handedly. Or, Pander, you’re the bravest person I know. What do I bring to this team? Trouble, that’s what: You’ve had to rescue me from Tyco; save me from the roof of the Vertical; break me out of the Block. What am I going to do next, invite Happy to our front door? I’m a liability; why are you looking at me?”

  For some reason my anger has risen up during this outburst. Perhaps it’s because I’m just now realizing how much of a mess I’ve caused and what a burden I’ve been to my friends.

  “Holy hell, Luka,” Pod says, a big grin on his face, “are you fishing for compliments?”

  “What? No!” I reply.

  “Yeah, I think Luka wants us to tell him how great he is,” Akimi says, arms folded across her chest, eyebrows raised.

  “Aw, is little Luka feeling sad?” Pander adds, grinning.

  I can’t help but smile, despite residual anger still remaining. I shake my head. “Piss off,” I say, and they all laugh.

  “You got us out of the Loop in the first place,” Igby says. “You went through the rat tunnel and saved Wren’s life; you went into the city to find help for Akimi when she broke her leg.”

  “You led us into battle against the Alts in Midway Park,” Pander adds.

  “And I got Blue killed,” I say. “I got Mable killed. I failed.”

  “It’s the end of the world, moron. People are going to die,” Pander says.

  “You saved my life in the city twice,” Sam says.

  “Honestly,” I say, “I’ve done no more than any of you. Most of you have saved my life at some point. We’ll decide together what we do next.”

  Pander nods. “Spoken like a true leader.”

  I flip my middle finger at her, and she smiles. The sight wipes my own smile away—I think this is first time I’ve ever seen Pander smile.

  * * *

  The next few hours are spent discussing exactly how we’re going to try to find the Missing. We talk about the history of the Missing: how people would disappear from the city in groups of three or four; the rumors that they were hiding in the radioactive Red Zones; the Church of the Last Religion claiming that they had been raptured; the search parties that would try to find them to no avail; and how they had shown up at Midway Park and saved us from certain death.

  “So,” Pander says, resting her chin in her hands, “no one could find them before the apocalypse, Happy can’t find them after the apocalypse—how the hell are we going to find them now?”

  “Why can’t Happy find them?” Pod asks, his brow furrowing.

  “How the hell should I know?” Pander replies.

  “The Mosquitoes,” Pod continues, getting to his feet and beginning to pace. “They scan for Panoptic footage and tech generally, but they also scan for signs of life: heartbeat; body heat; movement. If the Missing aren’t using a scrambler, how are they staying hidden?”

  “Do Mosquitoes scan the Red Zones?” Sam asks.

  “Yes,” Igby replies.

  “The junk barges?”

  “Yep.”

  “Underground?”

  “They scan fifty yards above and below ground. They fly three miles out to sea, and they go deep into the most irradiated parts of the Red Zones. And that was their protocol before Happy took over. Who knows how far they go now,” Igby says.

  I sit quietly, listening to this information, my heart sinking as I think of Molly, who was trapped underground in an old bank vault, Panoptic still intact, heart beating loud and clear for the Mosquitoes to detect. There’s no way she hasn’t been captured, no way she hasn’t been found by Happy, and Igby said she is not in the Block. I try to stop the thought from entering my mind, but I can’t.

  She’s dead, I think. They’ve killed her.

  “What about Alt tech?” I ask. “Mechanical hearts to hide their pulse?”

  “No, the Mosquitoes can detect MORs and APMs just as easily as the real thing, plus it doesn’t hide body heat,” says Pod.

  “So, what?” Igby asks. “They’ve found a way to mask all signs of life? Found a way to trick the Mosquitoes into ignoring their vital signs and any tech they’re using?”

  “What about old tech?” Dr. Ortega asks from her book bed, Akimi now on lookout.

  “Sorry?” Igby replies.

  “Old technology,” she repeats, sitting up. “Freaking Wi-Fi, the internet, the cloud, all that kind of stuff? Do the Mosquitoes scan for that?”

  “No,” Pod replies.

  “No, exactly,” she says, and lies back down. “The Red Zones are filled with ancient tech; some of it is probably salvageable.”

  “But, so what?” I say. “The Red Zones are irradiated; nothing can survive there.”

  “That’s true,” Igby says, “but we’ve been looking at one point in the Red Zones where the radiation hasn’t receded at the same pace as all the other parts.”

  “Doesn’t that just mean the radiation is stronger there?” Pander asks.

  “Maybe,” Pod says, “but it’s irrelevant, isn’t it? So what if they don’t scan for old tech? The Missing would still have to hide all signs of life, and that’s impossible.”

  Dr. Ortega sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sound, more a sound of regret, or resignation. “Have any of you heard of a scientist named Etcetera Price?”

  I hear Igby snicker. “You mean Dr. Oxymoron?”

  “I mean Dr. Price,” Dr. Ortega repeats.

  “Yeah,” Pod says, “but you’re not suggesting … surely not?”

  “What?” Pander asks.

  Pod turns toward the sound of Pander’s voice. “There was this scientist, a literal mad scientist, way back, years before all this happened. His work got leaked online and contained these crazy experiments where he claimed he
could effectively kill someone for an indefinite amount of time and then bring them back to life.”

  “He was crazy,” Igby adds, “but his heart was in the right place. He wanted people with terminal diseases, or incurable diseases, to use his technology: Safe-Death, he called it—hence the nickname Dr. Oxymoron. And they could remain dead for decades until a cure was found and then be brought back to life.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?” I ask, turning to Dr. Ortega. “That this Dr. Price figured out how to make his technology work? And he’s taken all the Missing into the Red Zone and they’re all … well, dead? But how would they be brought back to life if there’s no one alive to bring them back?”

  “Safe-Death,” Dr. Ortega says, “wasn’t complete death.”

  “What you’re suggesting is insane,” Igby says. “Etcetera Price’s theories were ridiculed even when he had access to the best technology in the world. If he really is somehow hiding in the Red Zones, there’s no way he could’ve built Safe-Death tech with equipment from a hundred years ago.”

  “Is it worth checking out?” Pander asks.

  Igby thinks about this. “There is almost zero percent chance that this has anything to do with Dr. Price and Safe-Death.”

  “Almost zero isn’t zero,” Pander says. “So, let’s go.”

  “No,” Igby replies. “It’s a waste of time, resources, and we could die.”

  “Then I’ll go on my own,” Pander says.

  Igby cries out in frustration. “This is why you shouldn’t talk!” he says to Dr. Ortega, before turning back to Pander. “We can’t just go; the edge of the Red Zone is nine or ten miles away and we only have one—very temperamental—mobile Mosquito scrambler, and even if we did somehow make it to the Red Zone, the radiation would kill us in one minute flat.”

  “So what do we do?” Sam asks.

  “What do we do?” Igby repeats. “We stop listening to fucking nonsense! What Abril didn’t tell you is that Etcetera Price was an Alt doctor who worked at the Facility. That’s right—the same place that they used to experiment on child prisoners like us! Why would a sicko like that want to help anyone, let alone Regulars?”

  “People change,” Dr. Ortega says, staring up wistfully at the ceiling.

  “Exactly,” Pander replies, still looking at Igby. “People change. Now, are you going to help us check it out, or not?”

  It’s Igby’s turn to bask in incredulity for a while. Finally, he sighs. “I guess we could send in Apple-Moth to check it out, but I’m telling you it’s a—”

  Igby is cut off by the sound of the old desktop computer beeping over and over. He frowns and walks over to it.

  We watch, our collective breath held, knowing that the computer—with its newly fitted processor—could be offering up information about our friends.

  “They’re alive! Malachai and Woods, they’re alive!” Igby yells, and then the excitement in his voice fades away. “Oh no, oh shit …”

  I run over to the computer. “What is it?” I look at the screen but can’t decipher the sprawling mass of numbers, letters, and symbols.

  “No, no, no, no …” he mutters.

  “Igby,” Pod says, joining us, “what’s happened?”

  “They’ve taken them to the Arc.”

  “But they’re alive?” I ask.

  “We’re too late. I think we’re too late.”

  “Too late for what?” Pander asks, running over to the computer.

  “They’ve already taken their eyes. They’ve replaced their lungs and their hearts.”

  “Igby,” I say, grabbing the boy by his shoulders and turning him around, “tell me what’s going on.”

  “They need three of them,” Igby says, reading the symbols on the screen. “They’re trying to figure something out … I’m not sure what, but because of their healing abilities, they’re the perfect hosts. Happy is uploading itself into them today.”

  “Three of them?” I repeat. “Who’s the third?”

  “I don’t know; it’s a code I don’t recognize. I’m still deciphering it.”

  Whoever the third is doesn’t matter right now—Woods’s and Malachai’s safety is what is important.

  “When?” I ask. “When is Happy uploading?”

  “They operated on Woods first—he becomes one of them at 11:07 a.m.—and then the mystery host at 11:12, and Malachai at 11:20.”

  I look at the computer’s clock. It tells me it’s 9:33 a.m. And then the screen goes blank.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “No, no, no! Fuck! No!” Igby grunts, hitting the computer’s screen with his palm. “I left it on too long with the new processor. It’s burned out.”

  “How long will it take you to fix it?”

  “An hour and a half, maybe two hours.”

  Too late, I think. It’ll be too late.

  “I’m going,” I say.

  “What?” Igby asks, turning toward me. “What do you mean you’re going?”

  “I’m going for Malachai and Woods,” I tell him.

  “The computer’s down,” Igby says, pointing to the blank screen, “which means the Mosquito scrambler is down.”

  “I know,” I reply. “The rest of you get the scrambler up and running again—when I come back we’ll find the Missing.”

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “With the scrambler down, you’ll be spotted within five minutes.”

  I stare at him, my mind already racing toward the Arc. “What about Apple-Moth?” I ask.

  “I mean, it’ll scramble Mosquitoes, but the thing won’t shut up!” Pod answers.

  “It’ll have to do,” I reply.

  “It doesn’t matter. You can’t get into the Arc,” Igby says. “No one can get into the Arc—only Tier Ones and Twos.”

  “This is a Tier Two uniform,” I say, pointing to the insignia on the shoulder of my stolen body armor.

  “But your face,” Pander says, walking over and pointing at me. “It’s, like, crazy ugly. They’ll know you’re not an Alt.”

  “What about Apple-Moth’s face-changer application?” I ask. “Can it do something more realistic than an ogre?”

  “I guess so …” Igby says doubtfully.

  “It’ll do,” I say. “Where is it? There’s no time, I have to go now.”

  Pod moves quickly to the periodicals room.

  “I can’t just let Happy take them,” I continue, glancing over to the bathroom, hoping that Kina will emerge, hoping that I can see her, talk to her before I go.

  “Boy, you will die,” Dr. Ortega’s sleepy voice comes from across the room. “But hey, if you happen to make it into the Arc and find the boys, make sure you destroy the E4-EX-19.”

  “What the hell is an E4-EX-19?” I ask.

  “Just destroy it. They need three of you to … just do what I say.”

  I’m about to ask for an explanation when Pod returns from the periodicals room with Apple-Moth. “Are you sure you want to take this? It might be more trouble than it’s worth. Plus, the stupid thing has been flying around all morning telling jokes—the battery is almost dead.”

  I nod and take the companion drone. “It’s solar charge, right? It’ll charge outside.” I look Igby in the eyes and I know that he can see my fear. “Okay, I’m going.”

  “Luka, our one working radio won’t be up and running until the computer is fixed. You’re going to be completely on your own.”

  “I have to do this,” I say.

  Igby nods. I jog to the bathroom door, which swings open before I reach it, and Kina stumbles out.

  “Luka,” she says, her voice quieted by the drugs that Dr. Ortega administered.

  My heart stops for a moment. I knew I would be leaving Kina behind, but I refused to acknowledge it. This mission, this foolhardy journey, could end in my death—and the worst part about dying would be never seeing Kina again.

  “Hi,” I say stupidly.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Kina, I ha
ve to,” I say. “Malachai and Woods, they’re—”

  “You said you wouldn’t leave.”

  I freeze. Staring at her, looking at how beautiful she is and knowing how much I need her, knowing beyond all doubt that I love her.

  “I … I know …” is all I can manage.

  I watch emotion flicker across her face, and then she bites down on it, hiding her fear and her frustration.

  “I’m coming with you,” she says, determination in her eyes, but then she almost passes out, the sedative still swimming in her veins.

  “You’re too weak,” I tell her.

  “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “They don’t have a minute.”

  Kina looks at me, desperation on her face, tears falling from her eyes. “Go,” she tells me, “but you better not die.”

  “I won’t,” I reply, and kiss her one more time.

  “Teenagers,” Dr. Ortega mutters from behind us, “it’s all drama, drama, drama.”

  I force myself to move, knowing that if I hesitate, I won’t go.

  “Good luck, Luka,” Akimi calls from the lookout chair. I turn to wave at her, then see all the rest of them in a row behind me.

  “Good luck,” Igby says.

  “Good luck, Luka,” Pod says.

  I nod, and smile a half-hearted smile, and then I’m gone again, into the sewer, into the darkness.

  * * *

  I make it out onto the street by the court and try to walk confidently. I’m still wearing the military uniform, but I lack the artificial self-assurance that the alcohol gave me earlier, and now all I’m left with is a pinpoint headache at each temple.

  Despite the fact that it’s almost ten in the morning, there is almost no sunlight at all. I look up at the sky and see that the gargantuan dark cloud has closed in even further, and I worry about what Happy is planning next.

  No time, I remind myself, and I turn the companion drone over in my hand, looking at the sleek translucent design; the casing is made of transparent aluminum and changes color with the drone’s artificial emotions; the machinery inside—as intricate as an ancient watch—is made from metallic glass. Companion drones were huge among the Alts before the world was destroyed—you were nobody unless you had the latest Happy Inc. companion drone.