Gifted (24 page)

“I know what you mean.” I sigh. “My sister is the reason I'll go back, eventually.” I reach out and put my hand on top of hers. She doesn't pull away.

We sit there for a moment, hands pressed together, then she says, “I might not know much about you, Aimery, but I don't need a carapace or anything else to tell me that you have a good heart.” She weaves her fingers into mine.

I feel her energy surge into my body like I've been plugged into a power source. At that moment I want to tell her everything. Come clean about who I really am. I inhale deeply and lean forward, ready to spill it all, but she lets go of my hand and hops up from the couch.

“Let's get out of here!” she says, charging across the floor.

“Where are we going?” I ask, confused by the sudden shift.

“You need new pants,” she says. “And Black Friday opens in fifteen minutes.”

*   *   *

“What is this place?” I ask Zimri when we join the crowd gathered in front of dark double doors in a nondescript cement block building. The whole place would take up a city block at home and is surrounded by a cracked blacktop parking lot with straggly weeds and busted out streetlights.

“There are two ways to buy things out here,” she tells me. “You can use the COYN from your Corp X account and buy new stuff directly from the warehouse.”

“But that's dumb, because then you pay Plute prices,” I explain, very proud of my Plebe knowledge.

“The other way to get what you need is this place.”

I follow as she shoulders her way toward the front of the crowd until we hit a wall of bodies intent on staying put. Zimri stands tall and strong with her legs wide and arms crossed.

“This is where Corp X sends all the returns, damaged goods, and stuff that doesn't sell off the shelves.”

“Must be popular,” I say, uneasy with how the mass around us is growing. There must be at least two hundred people in the lot with more coming from all directions.

“It's only open once a week, on Fridays, which is when they restock. You never know what will be inside, but there's almost always something you can use.”

“Pants?” I ask and gulp, uneasy with the bodies beginning to push up against me.

“Definitely pants,” says Zimri with a funny side grin. “When the doors open, things are going to happen fast. Stick close to me and don't stop until we get to the clothing area and then start grabbing. It takes less than half an hour for the whole store to get cleaned out. And you don't want to be stuck in line to pay or we'll be here all day. It's in and out, as quick as we can.”

“Sounds like a secret-ops mission.”

“Pretty much.”

The crowd shifts closer to the building like one giant blob as a digital countdown clock lights up above our heads. I see cameras everywhere. Mounted over the doors and on the corners of the building.

“Alright, get ready.” Zimri hunches lower.

Everyone around us starts the countdown in unison. “10 … 9 … 8 … 7…”

She grabs my wrist. “Stay close!”

On one, the front doors swing open and all the bodies rush forward like water through a broken dam. Zimri holds me tight as we are carried forward in the swell. I'm terrified I'll trip and get trampled to death. Just ahead of us, to the right, a guy falls. The crowd parts around him but not everybody sees and others go down on top of him. They pile up, rolling off each other, covering their heads and tucking their knees up into their chests to protect their bodies from the mob.

“Wait!” I yell, pointing at the people on the ground. I try to drag Zimri back to help them.

“Don't stop! Don't stop!” she shouts in my ear and pulls me forward. I'm afraid I'll get separated from her so I willingly follow, although I feel terrible for leaving those people behind.

Just like in the warehouse, Zimri is quick and nimble. She finds every break in the wall of bodies and weasels through the cracks so that we quickly get to the front of the pack. Up ahead, I see that the flow is parting, people going in many directions, down dozens of aisles with signs overhead that read: Electronics, Furniture, Shoes, Jewelry, Health & Beauty, Party Supplies, Grocery.

“This way!” she yells and pulls me hard to the left. The mass of bodies has dispersed enough that we can run full speed and outpace the pack heading for the aisles.

“In the back!” Zimri yells and takes a right. We zip through an aisle of prepackaged noodles, cookies, cereal, baby food, and power bars. We turn left and right again through an aisle of dolls, toy trucks, puzzles, and games. “Come on! Keep up!” She tugs me forward. My lungs burn. “Here!” she shouts.

We duck into another aisle, this one with stacks and stacks of clothes. “Pants! Pants! Pants!” she yells as she flies along, scanning every shelf. “Here!” She stops and jumps up and down with excitement. Behind us I hear a stampede of feet. “They're coming!” she yells. “Find your size! Find your size!”

“My size?” I freeze. “I don't know my size!”

“How can you not know your size?” She grabs me by the back of the waistband, pulls it away from my butt then shoves her hand down the back of my pants.

“Hey, whoa!” I yell and she cackles with laughter.

“Thirty-two, thirty-six! Go, go, go!”

We both run down the aisle, which has been flooded with more people. They elbow each other. A woman trips an old guy and yanks a pair of jeans from his hands. A fight breaks out as two men tug on opposite ends of a red-checked button-down shirt. On top of the shelves, cameras zip back and forth, recording every action.

Zimri shouts, “Found it!”

I run to her. Luckily no one else is competing for my size.

“Just grab some!” She pulls an armful of pants and several shirts off the shelves. I do the same. “Now run!” she screams and we take off, weaving around the other people still pillaging the clothing.

As we dart toward the front of the building, Zimri tosses pants over her shoulder. “These are ugly. Terrible pockets. What color do you want?”

“I don't know. Brown. Or blue.” I'm wheezing. I can't think about pants and run for my life at the same time.

Zimri doesn't stop. “Just find some that you like. We have to get to the registers.”

I do what she says, jettisoning pants as we jog until I'm down to two pairs that might work. “What do you think of these?” I hold up one pair in each hand while I run.

“Those are lame.” She knocks the gray ones out of my hand. “But those are good!” She points to the soft brown ones with pockets on the side. “Do you want two pairs?” She holds up identical ones.

“Okay.”

“Do you have some shirts?”

“Yes!” I hold up wads of fabric.

“Hold on to them,” she warns. “We're going back into the fray.”

We turn a corner and I see another wall of people, jostling and fighting for positions in long lines forming to get through the gates at the automated registers. Once again, Zimri grabs my wrist and pulls me forward. “This way,” she says and we zip past all the people.

“Endurance! Survival of the fittest!” she hollers and laughs with delight like a complete lunatic. Then she shoves the other pants at me. “Take these,” she says. “And meet me there.” She points to the very last register where the masses haven't spread yet because it's so damn far away, then she peels off from me.

“Wait!” I yell. But she is lightning quick and has already disappeared down another aisle under a Grocery sign. I hear her, though. She shouts, “Keep going! Don't stop.” I look over my shoulder and see a scrum of people heading my way so I take a deep breath and run faster. By the time I get to the gates for the last register, Zimri is speeding out of an aisle perpendicular to me with two small boxes in her arms. “Go! Go!” she yells.

She pushes me through the gate ahead of the rush of people. We jog up to the automated register. “Scan it! Scan it!” Zimri says but I stand paralyzed, no clue what to do. The people surge through the gates and push toward us. Zimri grabs the pants and shirts from me and runs them across the scanner. The total comes up on the screen. “Money!” she demands.

“What?”

“Money! Cash!”

“Cash?” Frantically, I pat my pockets. “I left everything at your POD.”

“Seriously?” she yells but then she scans her boxes and two drinks and quickly feeds bills into the machine to pay for everything. She shoves the clothes back at me. “Now, we get the hell out!”

 

ZIMRI

When we come
out of Black Friday, Aimery looks like he's ready to drop.

“You okay?” I pat him on the back.

He puts his hands on his knees, still huffing and puffing. “I feel like I just ran for my life from a pack of wild animals.”

“But you got some nice pants, so it was totally worth it, right?” I say, only half joking.

He looks up at me skeptically. “Is that how you shop for everything?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “Come on. We'll rest and eat something.” I take him by the hand and lead him across the street from the Black Friday parking lot and sit beneath a sprawling oak tree. “This used to be a school when my grandmother was little.” I point at the old redbrick building. Aimery falls like a rag doll beside me. “Brie and I used to sneak in there. There are still old paper books they used to teach kids to read and write and do math. Nonda says they even had art classes and music. And it was free. Can you imagine?”

“For free?” he says. “Why? How'd they make any money?”

“That was when the government paid for things,” I say. “But I guess it didn't work because eventually Corp X came in with their SQEWL and it closed like almost everything else.”

“What's that building?” Aimery asks, pointing at the Paramount Theater next to a dilapidated playground.

“It was a cinema,” I tell him. “And a theater for live plays and music concerts. One of my grandfathers played in a band. My mother told me the ceiling was painted to look like a starry sky.”

“It's beautiful,” Aimery says. “Or it could be, at least. If someone cleaned it up.”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “The whole town is like that, really.”

“Except Black Friday?” He turns and looks over his shoulder at the hulking building behind us and scowls, as if he'd been traumatized by what just happened. “I've never been inside a brick-and-mortar store before,” he admits. “I've never had to think about my size or fight for clothes that other people want. That was awful in there!”

I laugh. “Poor baby! Used to everything at the push of a button, huh? This is how the Plebes do it. Now we eat! Here, this is for you.” I hand him one of the lunch boxes I grabbed from the refrigerated section of the grocery aisle. “These are pretty good if you can snag one but they go fast.” I open mine. A mycoprotein chixen patty on a bun with reconstituted veggie strips and dip on the side. “What'd you get?”

He pulls out a smoked tofurky and facon sandwich with yogurt-covered freeze-dried berries and bananas.

“Yum!” I hand him a power drink from my pocket and open another for myself. He pops his open, chugs the whole thing, then digs into the food like he hasn't eaten in days.

“You know, it's funny,” he says between bites, “but when I was back at home, I never thought for a second about who was packing up my boxes of demands. I wanted socks. I ordered socks. I got socks. Everybody thinks that the old-time stores were so inefficient. Who has time to walk in someplace if you don't know whether or not they have exactly what you want or need? The right color? The right size? What would be the odds of everything lining up in your favor? But, man, after a week of picking for people who know nothing but how to consume, I think, nobody needs eighty-five percent of the stuff they order! And we assume the whole system is automated. I never imagined actual people were running around a warehouse, getting things for me.”

“You won't have to worry about that for long,” I tell him. “Ours is one of the last warehouses to use humans. They'll automate it someday and we'll be replaced by A.N.T.s.”

“But what will the workers do when that happens?”

“Same thing they've always done when jobs dry up,” I say with a shrug. “Nonda talks about how her parents and grandparents made cars in factories out here before that industry died. Some of those people had to move away, some found other jobs, and some of them never recovered.”

Aimery puts his sandwich down and says, “Sometimes when I'm picking in the warehouse, I wish I could see the names on the orders. I imagine that I might see one of my friend's names. Wouldn't it be strange if you actually knew the people you were picking for? Or if they knew us? Or what if we knew the people who built the stuff we used? What if I could meet the person who made these pants I just bought? Would it make a difference? Would people order less? Or more? Would they be less demanding and more forgiving if they knew it wasn't just an algorithm and robot working for them but an actual person?”

I giggle and lean in close. “Sometimes,” I tell him, “when no one's looking, I take out a marker I keep inside my pocket and I write
Nobody from Nowhere
on the packages.”

Aimery gasps.

“Oh, come on,” I say and shove his shoulder. “It's not that bad.”

“No, Zimri.” He grabs my knee. “I've gotten one of your packages!”

“Shut up!” I say.

“I'm serious. I knew I'd heard or seen
Nobody from Nowhere
before, but I just couldn't place it. Now I remember.” He throws his head back and laughs. “It was on some disposable umbrellas.”

“It's like we were destined to meet!” I tease.

But Aimery's face is serious. “I think so, too.”

“You're a Plute, aren't you?” I ask.