and they just don’t want to tell us? Has anyone seen him since then?”
Most of the Chosen Truthers hold signs that bear the illustration of the Chosen One that was released after he was discovered. Or “allegedly discovered,” as the Chosen Truthers would say.
“They told us they found him,” says Althea Grange, a self-described “neighborhood grandma” from Rockford. “And then they told us he was too young to have his picture in the paper, and we should just trust them? I don’t think they ever found him. They’re just trying to avoid a mass panic.”
The Chosen Truthers have just begun to chant. “Chosen One, Hidden One!” is the refrain of the hour. Two hours ago, they were singing a parody of the R.E.M. song “It’s the End of the World” with the lyrics “If it’s the end of the world, we should know it! We know you’re lying.” Last night, they even brought in a minister to lead a prayer begging God to spare Genetrix.
After days of protests in front of her office, DOMO deputy director Aelia Haddox finally issued a response to the Chosen Truthers’ concerns: “This isn’t some kind of conspiracy. After the massacre we increased security around the Chosen One for his safety. He is still only eighteen years old, and he deserves a little privacy until he’s ready to come forward. They need to go home and find something else to worry about.”
26
SLOANE WAS SWAYING her hips to the music. Her hands were caked with flour. Albie popped the top of the jar of sprinkles and tipped his head back to pour them in his mouth.
“Gross!” Sloane said, still swaying. But she was laughing. In front of her was a line of cookies shaped like Christmas trees. She had dusted them with green sugar. “Decorate your damn cookies,” Sloane said. “We’re making a new tradition here.”
Albie’s cheek bulged with sprinkles. His lips were blue from the food coloring. Then the color drained from his face, leaving him ashen and pale. A blue-lipped corpse.
She woke up in waves. In the first, she noticed all the blood had rushed to her hands; her fingertips were pulsing. And in the second, she realized her stomach was pressed into something hard and faintly curved: a shoulder. In the third, she remembered the cloth against her face. And in the fourth, she opened her eyes.
There was fabric right in front of her. The hem of a shirt. She tipped her head up just a little to see the floor passing beneath her. It was checkerboard marble in taupe and white. Whoever—whatever—was carrying her wore brown work boots with untied purple laces.
With her ear against his back, she could hear his breaths rattling in and out. The hand clasping her leg felt unyielding as a vise. She thought of the rotten cheek, the gritted molars with the tongue undulating behind them that she had seen before she passed out. Aelia had told them how the Resurrectionist came by his name on Genetrix. His army was composed of the living dead.
Her instinct was to thrash and kick. Catch her captor by surprise, get away, and run as far as she could. But she didn’t move. She didn’t know enough about the one who was carrying her—did he feel pain? How strong was he?—and she didn’t know where she was. Escape would have to wait.
Instead of running, she took note of the direction of the light (coming from windows on her right) and its slant (they were facing east, and it was morning, just after sunrise). A sharp pain in her chest told her she was panicking. She had woken up a captive once before. It had gone badly.
She listened to the murmur of voices around her, each one airy and dry, like a gasp. The Resurrectionist’s army, surrounding her. The echoes and the reflection of high windows in the gleaming floor told her the space was large. The scent on the air was mildew and dust with a hint of the ozone the Drain carried in on her clothes, hair, and skin. She knew from experience that it would take days to fade, no matter how hard she scrubbed.
If she survived that long.
She was still wearing her boots. That was something, an anchor to keep her here instead of in her memories. She had worn flippers in the Dive. The Dark One had taken her shoes. But here, she had her boots.
“She’s awake,” someone—or something—said. The voice came from her right.