You grab Henry’s arm and hustle him past all the thrumming industrial freezers. The weight of the vest makes this jog awkward. Your legs still ache from your sprint from the church the night before. Banging through the doors, you see the elevator. It only goes up, and you smack the button, highlighted in green by the ARs. You wait, listen to the elevator descend. Henry is breathing twice as hard as he should be.
When the elevator opens there is a man and a woman in chef’s apparel, big white smocks with white sleeves rolled up. You freeze and you hear a sound come out of Henry’s mouth.
“Easy,” Quinn says into your ear. The two chefs nod and continue their conversation as they brush past you. Something about the overtime they’re making and if it’s even worth it. You and Henry step into the elevator. In your glasses, the L button lights up green, and you smush it. The elevator begins up.
You hear a shred and realize Henry is ripping the stitching on the front of his vest. You grab his hands to stop him, but he’s peering into the material of the vest like he’s seeing his own version of Reverend Andrade hanging upside down. He stomps quietly around the elevator as you try to calm him without actually saying anything. He’s mouthing words to you, smacking his lips, making moist sounds so you hear him.
It’s real, it’s fucking real!
And you smack your lips back at him.
No it’s not, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up and calm down.
This is real they’re going to fucking blow us up.
Why? Why would they do that? Calmthefuckdown!
Then the elevator dings, and the doors slide open. The green line beckons you on.
“To the right,” says Quinn. “Out into the atrium.”
And this you were really not expecting.
You and Henry are suddenly standing in a vast space, skylights beaming early-evening sunlight into the atrium of some futuristic hotel. There are three desks with small plaques that say Guest Services and a lounge area, the tables adorned with fresh-cut flowers, the chairs taken by well-dressed men and women reading newspapers and tablets and checking their phones. One woman wears a VR set and scans her hand across the air, toggling through unseen options in a game, xpere, or worlde. Waiters dressed in black suits, white ties, and black aprons deliver drinks. The floor is dark marble veined with gold flake. Three gray pillars rise all the way to the ceiling. Between the pillars are plate-glass windows and beyond a beautiful green forest bisected by a sun-dappled river. Blue mountains rise in the distance while giant cumulous clouds hang in the sky’s upper reaches. The view is so gorgeous it momentarily makes you forget where you are or what is happening. You realize you’re holding your breath and let it out slowly. A huge bird, maybe a falcon or a hawk, alights on a branch outside and tics its head around. One of the guests points this out to another, finger wagging.
Henry, you realize, has not been stopped in his tracks by this beautiful scene. If anything, his panic rises. He heaves beside you, like he just finished a sprint. To your left, you spot a pair of security guards by the main entrance, two sliding glass doors facing a valet. Down the hill there is a gorgeous country road and bridge over the river. Ushers busy themselves collecting luggage from a black Tesla. The guards are dressed like you, same Xuritas uniforms, same style of ARs, but they carry automatic rifles. Your glasses ID them as SSO Omerto and SSO Williams. One of them actually looks at you but doesn’t appear to notice anything out of the ordinary. You and Henry pass right through his field of vision and then he returns to boredly watching the incoming road that cuts through a dark stand of towering trees.
“Head to your right. We’re going to take you through the kitchen.”
Quinn’s voice and the green line bring you back, but you have this feeling of floating above yourself. The sheer beauty of the surroundings makes you more discombobulated than your trespass or the device, fake or not, strapped to your chest. Nevertheless, you and Henry stand rooted in place.
“Guys, to the right.”
Henry turns to his left and begins walking.
“I said to the right!”
Of course, they can see what you’re seeing through your glasses, watching your every step.
“Henry,” you hiss. “Henry!”
“Goddamnit, Keeper, go get him.” This sounds like Jansi suddenly snatched the microphone away. You set off after Henry, grab him by the arm, but he rips free. Jansi’s voice is furious. “Henry, what the fuck are you doing? You’re going the wrong way. Henry!”
She’s still talking as Henry tears the glasses from his face and throws them across the marble floor. You’re horrified by this, checking every direction to see who might be watching. Every happy hour cocktail sipper, employee, and armed guard appears preoccupied, though. There is a gold plate on the wall with a sign for bathrooms, and he bangs through one of those doors. You follow.
It’s the most incredible bathroom you’ve ever seen. Low lighting, glistening silver sinks, and each toilet with its own full door for privacy. You hear Henry in one of the stalls, crashing around. You push the ARs up on your head so they’ll be pointed at the ceiling.
“Keeper? Put those back down. What are you doing?”
“Henry.” You rattle the door, but he’s locked it. “Henry, goddamnit.” You hear him grunting, Velcro shredding, and then a low moan.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck no no no no.”
“Henry, please open the door,” you say softly, like you’re trying to coax your son. And it works. He pulls back the latch, and the door swings wide. He’s crying. Big hot tears spilling down pink cheeks. His hair is sweaty and disheveled. He has his side angled to you. He’s undone the Velcro straps and he’s showing you something on the vest.
“Get him back on track,” Quinn demands. “We have a perfect opportunity. Get him and let’s go.”
You’ve stopped listening because you see what has Henry weeping with panic: hidden beneath the Velcro, right at the love handle, is a small padlock cinching two metal eyelets together and holding the vest tight against his body. He was trying to pull it over his head but couldn’t. You reach for your own vest, Quinn’s voice buzzing in your ear, and rip open the Velcro. You have the same lock on yours. You didn’t even feel Murdock snap it into place. Henry slumps against the stall, tugging his greasy hair. You snatch the ARs from your head and press your thumb over the microphone on the temple tip.
“You think they locked it to us if it’s fake?” Henry hisses through his tears. “They’re going to fucking blow us up.” A huge glob of drool escapes his lower lip and drips down to his lap. “I want to go home,” he moans. “Please, I just want to go home.”
“Okay,” you say, trying to think. That feeling from childhood has never left you, that you don’t understand anything that’s happening or why it’s happening or how to change it or stop it, but never has that sensation been more intense than it is right now. “Okay,” you say again.
“I just wanted to get a bike. I just wanted to get a bike and ride to Windsor,” says Henry. “My cousin said she’d let me stay there. I just wanted to buy this bike my neighbor was selling. That’s the whole reason.” And he goes on like that for some time, weeping and babbling about a motorcycle he was trying to buy and some relative in Canada. It’s hard to think with him blubbering so hard. You put the glasses back on top of your head. Jansi’s railing at you.
“—you hear me? You need to move right fucking now! Our window is closing.”