Gods of Anthem by Logan Keys Page B

reading. The book had cost nearly half my week’s pay, but it’s written by a British author my mother loved, and upon spotting it in the hands of one of my commune-mates, I’d begged and cajoled to obtain it.
    This is my third read-through.
    “Mo-oh,” Manda whines.
    I’m starting to wonder if she should have gotten ready at her own place; mine now smells like half a bottle of cheap perfume. She tilts her head at my book’s cover, sounding the words out before sitting on my bed with a pout. “You gonna read that crap all night? Readin’ is only good for one thing, ya know.”
    Manda twists toward my wall mirror and presses her chest into cleavage of light brown skin. “My mothah always told me it’s for tryna look smart for a guy, or tryna keep ya husband out of your pants. Neithah is goin’ on in here, so let’s go.”
    When I don’t answer, she says, “Fine. What if I told ya there’s lots more of those where we’re goin?”
    “Lots of what?”
    “Books, dumb-dumb! Tons of ‘em. Ones the Authority ain’t gonna let you just buy on the cornah.”
    After this, I can’t get ready fast enough.

    Whenever I say “yes” to Manda, I regret it.
    Since it’s after curfew, we have to sneak through the streets, and Manda has these little hand signals: flapping really fast in my face means “stop,” while putting a finger practically up my nose and then pointing means “ thata way.”
    “Don’t worry,” she says. “The guards don’t come past this part.”
    I hesitate for obvious reasons. “Where are we going?”
    “You know how New York had Long Island, the City, and Harlem? Rich folks in their own space are like Long Island, you and I live in the City, and this …” We step turn into an alleyway where people are funneled into a building. “ … is Harlem.”
    It’s a gymnasium at the end, only five times the normal size. Two rugged men wearing camo and carrying guns stand at the entrance. By the sound from inside, there must be hundreds of people in there.
    Manda winks at one of the men standing at the door, and he smiles, flashing a gold tooth before nodding us through.
    We’re shoved around once inside, jostled in the crowd. There’s music playing, and tables for gaming. Some people even hold the leashes of large muzzled dogs. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a dog, though these aren’t fluffy house pets.
    We pass a game of dice, and one guy rolls before he reaches for the cash stacked in the middle of a ring of people. I’m towed away by Manda, barely moved clear of the swinging fists when a fight breaks out as they identify a cheater.
    “Where are we?” I ask.
    She laughs and pulls out a cigarette. “This, my friend, is paradise. But ya might know it bettah if I just say it’s the black mahket where we trade the kinds of things the Authority’s nixed. Folks that run this place, they go into the wilds to get stuff.”
    “The wilds…?”
    “Yeah.” Manda nods, brown eyes sparkling. “A bunch of the guys go into the old cities. Fight the zombies. So hot, right?”
    Manda reaches across a nearby table to grab a cup. She digs into her pocket and leaves some bills behind. “Here.” She hands the cup to me and takes another for herself.
    Real money; she’d pulled out green cash from the old days. She gestures for me to drink, but I stare into the fizzy yellow liquid with reluctance.
    “It’s beeah. Sorta. The only kind we can make.”
    My brain translates: beer.
    The guy behind the table nods at me, waiting eagerly while I try a sip. Bitter, but definitely tasty. “This is very good!” I tell him.
    We check out the various booths. In one, music boxes sit on glass shelves, and my fingers feel each one before I move on. None have a ballerina like mine. A pang comes at the thought that I’ll never see her again. How I miss my little music box.
    A young tattoo artist is taking customers at the next booth. The whir of his gun buzzes above the talking and the music. His drawings