He hurriedly makes his way back to the lab entrance, but the white ants follow him. Looking over his shoulder, he sees masked faces and blank eyes, looking in his direction. He rushes out, trying to escape them, pulls off his own mask so that he can breathe. Gets to the elevator and pushes the button over and over, looks for stairs and takes them. Whips off Fiona’s lanyard.
He runs up the three flights to the Colours’ offices, steps into the corridor and starts to head in the direction of the building’s main exit. Sweating, breathing hard, he wonders if he’ll make it before being shot with one of the guards’ stun guns. All of a sudden there is the chaos of people going in the opposite direction to him, as if choreographed.
For once, the Reds, Yellows, Greens and Blues mix madly and without prejudice. Like vibrating atoms threatening to spill out of the building. As if the building is going to spew this multi-coloured mess onto its perfect pavements. Rainbow Vomit, thinks Seth, surprised by the strange phrase. The workers seem puzzled that he is walking against the flow. A worker bee flying in the wrong direction. Then, a firm hand on his back, and he turns around, expecting to see a guard, but it’s Wesley, smiling from ear to ear in all his fat-lipped glory.
‘Seth!’ he says, rosy cheeks aglow.
‘I was just on my way—’ Seth says, motioning vaguely.
‘No, no,’ laughs The Weasel, still holding onto him tightly, ‘you’re going the wrong way. That wasn’t a fire alarm, it was a gala alarm.’
Seth has no idea what he means, but allows himself to be steered by Wesley into the stream of Fontus employees. The swarm seem excited. They gather in the main boardroom, a massive space filled with glass screens, holograms, cascading AVs, stocked fridges. People hand out drinks to their colleagues, joking about catching Yellow team members drinking Green drinks, and vice versa. The only cross-product consumption allowed is water: everyone is authorised to drink any of the waters, guilt-free. There is animated murmuring and smiling, a sea of expectant faces.
As a rule, public gatherings make Seth uncomfortable. It makes him feel like he is buying into something, an automatic victim of groupthink, a forced Kool-Aid enema. A (black) sheeple. Now, especially on edge, perspiring, he manoeuvres himself into a corner and swallows a TranX.
He tries to spot Fiona but can’t see her. Didn’t see her yesterday, either. The crowd peels away from a tall, handsome man striding in, like Moses parting the sea. Everyone falls silent. He is wearing a sharp black suit – expensive – and just-greying beard and hair. The shoulders-waist ratio of a superhero.
Seth recognises him immediately from the Alba brief: Christopher Walden, founder and CEO of Fontus, one of the richest men in South Africa, and general do-gooder. Like a politician, he has the knack of getting good deeds in the media at every opportunity.
‘Good afternoon, my favourite employees,’ he beams. His white teeth are a spotlight on the tittering crowd. Given his appearance, you almost expect him to talk in a broad American accent, but his delivery is Jo’burg Private School. He cues his assistant, who presses a button on a remote control. Images of an informal settlement come up on the scattered screens: a Mexican wave of blue skies and tin roofs. They are the usual images used to manipulate: dry-skinned, snot-crusted toddlers, skinny-ribbed dogs, litter bunting on wilting fences.
‘This is a suburb in Thembalihle, just forty kilometres away from here. These people are in dire need of our help. They can hardly afford staples like water, bread and maize. It came to my attention yesterday that a couple staying there had been trying for five years to have a child. Finally, they were granted their miracle,’ he pauses and the picture of a sunny baby comes up on the main projection. Smiling for the camera despite being too warmly dressed, the infant’s petroleum-jellied dimples elicit a chorus of coos.
‘This is Lerato. She was hospitalised yesterday with Cholera symptoms. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous Cholera is for a small child. It happened after the mother mixed her formula with grey water, from the tap.’
The crowd shakes its head, clicks its tongue.
‘She was desperate. She had run out of money for food. It was her only option.’ He pauses to let his employees feel the weight of it. ‘But we’re not going to stand around and let this happen!’ he says. ‘There are buses downstairs, waiting for you. We’re off to visit Lerato’s neighbourhood to deliver care packages. Food, paraffin, blankets, and water!’ The room erupts into applause and cheering.
‘Are you ready, Fontus?’ he shouts. There is a ripple of affirmation. Walden’s eyes glitter.
‘I didn’t hear you! I said, are you ready Fontus?’
The room shouts ‘Yes!’
‘Go Fontus!’ he yells, fist in the air.
‘Go-o-o-o-o Fontus!’ the room yells back, and everyone starts moving out.
Kirsten had brought them cold-pressed coffeeberry juices, cream-caff for her, to dull her synaesthesia for the trip in the communal taxi; black double-caff, extra stevia for Keke. Two vanilla-bean xylitol kronuts the size of saucers.
‘Okay, lady, spill.’ Keke says, once they had squashed in at the front. ‘Where are we going and how did you find it?’
‘How does our generation find any wisdom of great substance and worth?’
‘Er… Google?’
‘Yebo.’
They were stuck in traffic. It was unusual nowadays, but still seemed to happen to Kirsten when she was in a rush to get somewhere. She stuck her head out the window to get a glimpse of what was causing the delay. A line of obedient vehicles snaked ahead of them.
‘It couldn’t have been easy, with all the doomsday prophets around, promising that every day is our last. The Suiciders, the Rapture kids, the Resurrectors.’
‘I’ve never understood the whole “The End is Near” crowd,’ says Kirsten, sitting back down.
‘I know,’ says Keke. ‘You hate it when people state the obvious.’
‘Exactly. Of course the end is near! As soon as there is a beginning the end is near.’
‘I hope that coffee of yours is full-caff. You need a cup of optimism.’
‘I don’t mean it in a macabre way,’ says Kirsten.
‘Is there another way?’
‘Yes! I mean it in a… I don’t know, a Zen way. All beginnings have ends and that’s the circle of life.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘I don’t have a point. All I’m saying is that it’s ironic. Life is really short and the creeps going around with their shouty-shirts telling you “The End is Near” are wasting their time.’
‘Got you. Really they should listen to their own message and get a life. Literally.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So there were hundreds of silly results for ‘Doomsday’?’
‘Thousands! So I ended up Googling her instead: the deranged lady.’
The driver enjoys pumping the pedals. The combi would pitch forward, then stop dead, pitch forward, in an awkward dance of accelerator and brake. He speaks at volume to no one in particular. The passenger next to Keke is wearing a bad weave and singing along to the punk-gospel in her diamanté earbuttons, flashing a gold front tooth. They have to talk over her vibrato. Despite Kirsten’s dulled senses, all the stimulation around her makes her feel disoriented. Finally they see the reason for the gridlock: a red-light brigade dominating the highway.
‘Someone should tell them that this is supposed to be the fast lane,’ mumbles Kirsten, and gets a dirty look from a fellow passenger. The red-lights signalled it was a SurroSis and her entourage, and were to be respected at all costs and inconvenience. The driver touches his hat and then his heart, and they finally nudge past.