Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil Page 27

  Evan delighted in the sight, his warmth about it all only increasing when he spotted Meryl sitting in the third row, hand in hand with Bob-O, who had apparently fixed the bathroom situation in time to catch the movie after all. Just ahead of them sat David and Laz, the good friends keeping a full empty seat between them, aggressively heterosexual-male style, so as to prevent their hands from accidentally touching. Aria and Donatella, near the back, sat next to one another and yet practically in their own worlds, given how deeply they were into whatever they were doing on their phones. Few empty seats remained in the house.

  Strangely, though, five empty seats stood open in the front row, right along the center aisle. Evan took the one in the middle, leaving two seats to either side of him. He would have liked nothing more than for Nora to take one of these seats, but he knew she would be too busy during showtime to stop to watch even a single scene. He loved how much pride she took in her work; loved how dedicated she was to her craft; loved her with an intensity he had never before considered.

  “The hell’d I tell you, Ev?” This from Valence, who found himself engaged in the frantic process of pacing in front of the giant movie screen, practically tearing out his hair. “Two hundred seats ain’t gonna be enough.”

  “Don’t give yourself too much credit,” Laz called out from his seat. “People just love The Matrix, man.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been wondering why you’re showing that one again,” Evan said. “I mean, you already showed it on the Farm.”

  Valence threw his hands up, mid-pace. “I showed it on the Farm. Ain’t fuckin’ showed it here.”

  “I believe the young man is superstitious,” Laz offered. “Why mess with a good thing?”

  “I get that,” Evan said, mostly to Valence. “But you’re not just opening to the public. I mean, look out there. Plenty of Farm patrons out there too. If you’re going to dip back into the same well, why not show one of the sequels?”

  Finally Valence stopped pacing. The gaze he leveled on Evan was so intense that Evan took a step back in defense.

  “Those turds?” Valence said. “Reloaded and Revolutions? Are you fuckin’ serious, Ev? You think Imma open my movie house with a film like that?”

  Evan drew a breath but didn’t know what to say. He had actually kind of liked those movies.

  “Nah,” Valence said. “Laz’s right. I’m, uh, you know, like, fuckin’ superstitious and shit. Was my best showing at the Farm. People really liked the talk I gave. Might as well do it again.”

  “Of course it helps that Valence actually owns the movie,” David called out.

  “Fuck you.”

  David held his hands out. “You’re on a shoestring, man. All I’m sayin’.”

  “Not after tonight.” Valence punctuated this by pointing at David and Laz as if their negativity was to blame for his anxious mood.

  Evan checked his watch again, an act that Valence caught.

  “Time is it, man?”

  Though he didn’t want to amp Valence up any further by revealing how little time he had before speaking before a massive audience would become necessary, he admitted that it was seven minutes to showtime.

  “Fuck,” Valence said. “What if I bomb?”

  “No one’s going to talk about your speech, Val,” Bob-O suggested.

  Valence stared bullets into the Toilet King.

  Bob-O dropped his handhold with Meryl so he could raise both hands defensively. “I just mean that all the press will probably be about the huge turnout despite the police presence outside.”

  “I asked those assholes not to make it so obvious.”

  In the next breath, someone entered. Valence, ever the gracious host, bolted to these people as if the entire future of his business hung on their satisfaction. So quickly did he begin his fawning that Evan had to crane to one side in his seat to see who it was. He groaned when he spotted Elliot Larson and his sidekick Natalia. The former wore an outrageously expensive suit while the latter dressed in her usual shadow-tight bodysuit. To Evan’s dismay, Larson caught him in the act of checking them out.

  “Evan White!” Larson said. “Are those seats taken?”

  “Couldn’t stay away, eh, Elliot?” Evan said, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

  “So they’re free, then?” Larson was beside him now, so there was no use denying it.

  “Yeah, they free,” Valence said. “Look at that. Your good friend Evan saved you a seat right in the, uh, fuckin’ front row.”

  Evan did not like being referred to as this man’s friend, but he let it slide, not wanting to stir up Valence any further by quibbling about the familiar terminology he would prefer to apply to this latest paying moviegoer.

  “I’ll tell you,” Larson said, gracefully descending the slope and offering his hand for Evan to shake, “you must be exhausted.”

  “Sleep did prove elusive last night,” Evan admitted.

  Natalia took her seat and leaned in beside her employer with one eyebrow raised.

  Larson looked entirely too pleased with himself. “The FBI raiding the Farm, protests, and a police presence at the theater. If I know you, you won’t get one second’s enjoyment out of this movie.”

  “I love this movie, thanks,” Evan lied.

  “Any theories yet about why the riot started? Or the stampede, my God?”

  Evan flashed a hot gaze at Natalia. He believed he could answer this question truthfully, but it would only start an argument. In his view, no matter who was truly responsible for the stampede or the riot, the unrest began exactly when Natalia took over the resident screening process.

  “I have a theory,” Larson offered without prompting.

  Inwardly Evan groaned.

  “You seem to have a number of problems created by the poor harvest,” Larson said. “And the Fox News piece didn’t do you any favors.”

  “Thanks for the insight,” Evan said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe you can enlighten the rest of us at the next board meeting.”

  Larson ignored the jab. “You must let me finish, Ev. Those are simply problems. They are symptoms of a larger disease. If you want to fix all of this unrest, you need to properly treat the disease.”

  Evan rolled his eyes. “And how do I do that?”

  With a hungry smile, Larson leaned in and spoke softly. “It’s like I was saying after the fire. The disease is fear. To cure that disease, you have to create an environment truly free from fear.”

  “And how do I do that?” Evan repeated.

  Larson assumed a thoughtful expression. “Take this movie, for example.”

  “The Matrix?”

  “Crazy to think it’s less than two decades old, and already we’re on the cusp of technology that could make it possible.”

  Evan bunched up his face in annoyance. Larson didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Think about the Oculus,” Larson said. “Zuckerberg’s great and hilarious failure. Why did that tech fail?”

  “Because people looked completely ridiculous with that huge rig on their heads.”

  “Exactly. Like The Matrix shows, you have to plug your tech directly into people’s heads if they’re going to feel truly immersed. Why do you think Elon’s working on that neural network of his?”

  “That’s your solution for removing fear? Plugging people into The Matrix?”

  Larson ignored the incredulity in Evan’s tone. “You’d have to do it at low cost. But if you could manage this, people would pay whatever they had to pay to be a part of it. Imagine being able to plug into a world free from any real danger, a world absent of fear.”

  “Something tells me you’d find a way to monetize that world.”

  “Absolutely,” Larson said without a stitch of reservation. “Imagine all the services you could charge for. All the microtransactions that would rule everyday life. Anyone who owned this matrix could take every poor man’s last dollar, and every rich man’s every dollar, and just completely rule the world.”


  Evan groaned.

  “I’ve touched a nerve,” Larson said unapologetically.

  “You started by talking about a cure for the disease of fear. Now you’re talking about a way to horde all the world’s money.”

  “Not horde. Collect.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  For the first time since he’d met him, Evan watched in irritated awe as Larson fell momentarily speechless.

  “Okay, you’ve created a fear-free world where everyone gives you all their money,” Evan said. “What’s the point?”

  “I would have all the money.”

  “And what’s the point for everyone else? Sitting on a couch, just waiting for the next software update to your new platform? No one interacts in the real world? They all just sit vaguely near each other and plug in to a place where they just keep shelling out money? The hell kind of life is that?”

  “It’s a safe life.”

  Evan shook his head. “Why would anyone choose safety over the freedom to make something for themselves in the real world?” He cast a hand back behind him. “Look at all these people. Many of them are residents. They were attacked last night. Had their livelihoods set on fire. They lived through an actual riot and an I-shit-you-not stampede. Because of the harvest, they’ve seen shortages for weeks. And don’t forget that most of them spent years living on the actual streets. These are people who didn’t just experience fear; they’ve lived it every day.”

  “And?”

  “And I bet if you polled them, every last one would say that, given the choice between making a meaningful life in a community like the Farm or pumping quarters into a head-implanted machine, they’d choose the former every time.”

  Larson shrugged. “You’re shouting down the future, my friend.”

  Getting referred to as Larson’s friend for a second time—and this time, by Larson himself—was almost more than Evan could bear. If Nora hadn’t chosen this precise moment to arrive with her amuse-bouche, he might have lost his shit.

  “Sample the wares, gentlemen?” she said in mock cheer.

  They sampled them happily, as did Natalia. Evan groaned into his satisfaction, leaning back in his chair.

  “Drama queen,” Nora quipped.

  The laugh came to Evan so suddenly he nearly choked on his egg and bacon thing. It was still amazing. He watched enraptured as Nora continued down the aisle with her cart, distributing tiny corn-plastic plates full of the delicious egg and bacon samples to all the guests. Given the turnout, she would have to make at least four trips. Evan found himself hoping that the cops hadn’t eaten so many that she wouldn’t be able to meet the demand.

  With the moment of delight passed, Evan returned to the argument at hand. “Life has nothing to do with these digital worlds that iPhones and Oculus are creating. Digital worlds can be amazing, but they’ll never be anything more than illusion. Life is about being in the room with people. Life is good. Life is biological. It is present tense and in this moment. It’s experiencing and sharing experiences. It’s enjoyment with one another. It’s community. It’s love. It’s procreation. It’s everything good in this world. If you think you can create a new reality that could possibly overshadow that, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “An antiquated opinion.”

  Evan rolled his eyes. “You futurists are all the same—always trying to suggest that we’re heading toward this all-encompassing, posthuman, singularity nonsense. But the future of humanity is the same as it has always been. The future is analog. The future is about the most human instinct: survival, to stay alive. What you’re describing isn’t life. It is the opposite of life. Life is good. And since what you’re talking about is the opposite of life, what does that make it?”

  Larson and Evan had been so engaged in this debate that it took them until only just then to realize that Valence was glaring at them. In his hand, he held a microphone. The lights had gone low, Evan noticed for the first time, and the head of the movie house was performing a wide-eyed “are you done yet?” kind of expression.

  “Hey now, fellas,” he said into the mic. “You stealin’ my thunder with this man vs. machine, good vs. evil shit.”

  The crowd erupted in a good-natured chuckle.

  “All these folks risked life and, uh, limb just to get into this place. On my openin’ night.” Valence leaned in so close that his face hovered between Evan and Larson. “So now maybe you two wouldn’t mind shuttin’ the hell up so I can pontificate?”

  Dylan Elan Powers The Bread of Life

  The world owes us nothing. Any philosophy that releases us from the responsibilities of our future is simply dangerous.

  —Justin Wolfe

  I’m writing this from the diner’s catering van. Still can’t believe I’m alone back here. What good is security if you only guard one side of the building?

  When I first got here, it looked like maybe I’d have to postpone. Opening night, sure, but who has a turnout like this? Couldn’t even pull onto Race Street because the cops had it blocked off to keep the protestors back. What the hell they were protesting, I couldn’t say. Read a sign that said, “Bums Go Home.”

  Yeah, I’ll send them home.

  No way through that blockade, though, unless you’re on foot. Looked like the cops were letting people in as long as they had a ticket to the show. The Matrix. Who shows The Matrix? That movie’s like fifty years old, and the CGI sucks. All those bullets and no blood. Stupid.

  Hey. At least everyone in that theater will get to see what the real thing actually looks like before they die.

  The crowd meant I probably wouldn’t get to launch my plan today. But I wasn’t about to waste the trip. Might as well do some recon. So I parked a few blocks up, left my gear in the van stashed under one of Dad’s cancer blankets, and made my way back to Race. On any other day, the war paint on my face would’ve stood out in the crowd, but nobody noticed me because everyone else was so nuts. Protestors everywhere. Hollering about how cults had no place in Savannah. Cops grunting at them to get back.

  What’s all this about a cult? More craziness. More shit that wouldn’t exist if the universe really did revert to equilibrium, if the world really was fair. People wouldn’t be desperate enough to join a cult if the world really was fair.

  I didn’t have a ticket to the movie, so I couldn’t get through the blockade, but I could get close enough to see what was going on inside. Looked like an outdoor market. All these people had set up card tables and shit and were selling junk. Strange thing, though. It wasn’t like a planned market or anything. There weren’t any tents over the tables. Just a bunch of gypsy-looking people selling things. And they had plenty of buyers.

  One couple of buyers I recognized. They used to be regulars at Dad’s diner, back before his cancer. They quit showing up around the time he started showing symptoms. That was the way with most of them. Fucking assholes. Can’t be bothered to eat in a place where the owner looks half dead. Never mind how you were supposedly the owner’s friends.

  Saw these assholes walking out of the bakery next to some new restaurant by the theater. They were carrying bread. Dad tried to sell bread once. Bought all this equipment so he could sell his own baked goods. No one ever bought anything. Not even the regulars. And now there they were, buying bread from some new business on Race.

  Maybe it’s just my family name. Everyone trying to screw us over all the time.

  Shit, if my dad had half the business sense of these clowns, his diner would’ve made it. Maybe if he’d kept the regulars, it would still be open. And man, if even twenty of these people who had enough time on their hands to scream at total strangers would just stop into the diner instead . . . People don’t have their priorities straight. They’re all too busy yelling about what the world owes them to actually do something meaningful.

  I’ll show them something meaningful.

  As I was watching Dad’s asshole regulars make off with their daily bread, I noticed a hitc
h in the system. The police had everything blocked off with a temporary wire fence they were guarding every few feet or so. But the fence ended at the front of the building. The front of the theater was protected by this huge, crazy blockade, but the side and back of the building was completely exposed. I wandered down to the end of the fence, trying not to draw any attention so I could get a better look. Nobody there. And there was an alley. Nobody guarding the alley.

  Couldn’t believe my luck. Had to be the universe telling me I was doing the right thing. Finally taking action. Finally making my mark. Whatever. It looked like the plan was back on. I would just have to wheel the van around behind the theater and wait until showtime. If anyone came up, I’d just tell them I was helping cater the party. Had to wash off the war paint, just in case. But no worries. I’ll apply it again when the time comes.

  I’ve got a few minutes to kill, so I hop in the back to check on my gear. A checklist:

  Tactical vest. Check.

  Ballistic helmet outfitted with GoPro. Check.

  AR-15. Check. I’ll start with this one. Put the fear of evil in them. Get them scattering before I let loose with the Remington. Make it a better hunt.

  Sawed-off. Check.

  AK-47. Check, but I’m going to leave it in the van. Too much to carry. Might slow me down.

  Duffel full of rounds. Check.

  Glock #1. Check.

  Glock #2. Check.

  Five minutes left, I jump back into the passenger seat and reapply my war paint. Black on white, my hair all bleached. I look like Death. When that’s done, I sit down to write the last of this.

  This could be the last thing I ever write. No one in that theater will ever read it. But the world will read it. They will call it my manifesto. It will open their eyes to the way the world truly is. It will show them that there is no middle ground, no equilibrium. There is only good and there is only evil. I have chosen my side. Time for the rest of the world to choose theirs.