“Exactly. Nice dick but I’ve seen bigger.”
We surge upward. Square windows rush past the elevator’s clear walls, offering us a flickering zoetrope view of the city that becomes transparent as we pick up speed.
“You’ll notice Sinopec Tower is not visible at this time,” Blue Tie says.
Julie scans the skyline, frowning.
“After losing our downtown headquarters in the tragic Eight Six quake,” Yellow Tie says, “we felt it was important for brand confidence that we occupy the tallest buildings in the city. We were able to take Freedom Tower with minimal expense, but we had ongoing conflicts with the occupants of Sinopec Tower. We opted to eliminate the building, resolving two issues at once.”
“Efficient multitasking is crucial to staying on top in today’s competitive world,” Blue Tie says.
Julie stares at the empty space where that blue glass spire used to be. I feel a similar gap in my memories. In all their leaping back and forth through time, there is a barrier they never cross, and in the shadows beyond that barrier is where these things happened. Earthquakes, floods, and falling buildings. A mad scramble to the top after being laid low.
How did he do it?
The floor numbers keep rising. Fifty. Sixty. The higher we climb, the less real the city looks. People disappear. Buildings shrink into toys. Rooks on a bewildering chessboard.
It hits me suddenly like ice water to the face.
“Where are we going?” I take an aggressive step toward Blue Tie. “What’s in this building?”
“Executive would like a word with you,” he says.
My stomach lurches. “Is he here?” My tongue recoils from the name. “Is . . . he here?”
All three well-dressed ghouls grin at me. Even Black Tie.
I ram into Blue Tie with my shoulder, knocking him away from the button panel. I frantically pound the emergency stop, but nothing happens. Black Tie’s fist hits me like a bus and I stagger back, seeing flashes and spots. Julie springs into action like we planned this. She leaps onto Black Tie’s back and loops her cuffs over his head, pulling the chain into his neck so hard it almost disappears into his flesh. But he seems unperturbed. Instead of struggling to free his windpipe, he reaches back and grabs Julie by the hair. She screams as he yanks her off his shoulders and flings her to the floor. A clump of gold remains in his fist. He sees me gaping at it, gives me a calculated smirk, and stuffs it in his pocket.
Rage replaces terror. I coil against the door, preparing to tackle him into the glass and hopefully through it, to pummel and punish him all the way down to our messy reunion with the street. But then Blue Tie jams a Taser into my neck, and I collapse.
Black Tie pulls Julie off the floor. He holds her by the shoulders while Blue Tie jabs the Taser into her chest and keeps it there.
“Stop,” I croak, staggering to my knees.
“We do need your full cooperation at this time,” Yellow Tie admonishes.
“Fuck . . . you!” Julie snarls through gritted teeth as sparks snap between her canines.
An obscure piece of trivia flickers into my head. Another little piece of the puzzle that is the woman I love: studies have shown that swearing has an anesthetic effect.
Swearing eases pain.
The elevator dings. The door opens. Black Tie releases Julie and she collapses against me in an awkward heap. I can’t embrace her so I improvise, pressing my chin onto the top of her head. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
She nods feebly, rubbing her head against my chin. Her breath is warm on my throat.
“If you’ll follow us now,” Yellow Tie says, beckoning us out of the elevator, “we’ll transfer you to Executive and they’ll be happy to help you.”
We stumble out into an apartment whose stark contrasts give it the aura of an art installation. Perhaps some heavy-handed commentary on consumerism or the emptiness of wealth. Much like the lobby below, the loftiest residence in the western hemisphere has let itself go. Its sleek leather furniture is stained and cracked, its white marble countertops are dulled by dust, and the pale oak floors are marred by a trail of boot scuffs leading deeper inside. A bowl of what may have been fruit is now a bowl of dried rot, just one of many graveyard aromas that abuse my nose. But it’s the faintest of them that disturbs me the most: cigarette smoke. Or rather, human flesh putrefied by it.
He’s here.
After all those years, he’s still here. Waiting for me. Crawling up from my basement.
Atvist.
The name forces itself into my thoughts, gnawing at my identity like the one my parents gave me, that strange little noise that began with ‘R.’ What if he says it aloud? What if he releases it from the confines of my head and makes it real, along with the rest of the dark life we shared?
Will it overwrite me? Will I disappear?