Page 9 of Ezra
Security guards are posted all over the museum to ensure nothing gets damaged and that little hands don’t touch what they shouldn’t. As we draw closer to noon, the museum only gets busier. I wind between guests through the Hall of Bulls, castingan appreciative glance up at the cave paintings before heading toward the café. I’m getting hungry, and since I work here, I get a fifty percent discount on food.
At the café, I order a chicken wrap and a side of fruit, but then decide I’d rather not stand around for twenty minutes waiting for my name to be called. I see Zoey stepping away from her group of school children. She smiles and waves at me.
“Lunchtime,” she says as I pass her on my way to freshen up in the bathroom. “Anything good today?”
“I’m just going for my usual. Kids heading home?”
“Not quite, but they brought their lunches to eat outside. So I have a little bit of time, at least.”
“Want to sit with me?” I ask.
“Sure!” Zoey says. “I’ll save us a table.”
I head to the bathroom, happy the day is passing quickly. My mind is already whirling about tomorrow, preparing myself mentally to be overwhelmed, but in a good way. This sudden promotion could mean wonders for my résumé. And a pay bump, even temporary, when I’ll be moving into my own place in a couple weeks? That extra money will definitely be put to good use.
Someone runs into me from the opposite direction. He’s tall and built, and he connects with my shoulder so hard I grasp it and stumble out of the way. I expect an apology but get none. I’m barely acknowledged. That irritates me. “Excuse me?—”
The guy, wearing an oversized hoodie, glances at me briefly from beneath a baseball cap, and I see the glow of unearthly stark-white irises.
Lovely. An android almost knocked me on my ass. I can’t do anything about it. They’re not barred from entering, although Arnold is considering making that call. We simply don’t have the funds to install an android-scanning system in preparation forPresident McKinley’s new order. He’s probably another teaching assistant, or perhaps a family android on holiday.
It’s odd, though. A TA or a family bionic would likely apologize to me for the mishap. Politeness is in their programming. This one doesn’t say a word, just continues on past me.
“Rude,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing my now very sore shoulder. Androids have a steel skeleton. There’s a lot of power underneath their synthetic skin. Makes me wonder if he ran into me that hard on purpose. Is pettiness programmable now?
I swing open the door to the women’s bathroom and hurry inside. After relieving myself, I wash my hands, brooding about those two wannabe influencers and how quick they were to use inciteful language. How easily they found it to threaten burning androids, and how uncomfortable that made me. I know a lot of diehards in Humanity First want them all shut down. While I understand being upset about losing a job, that’s just not going to happen. BioNex and their creations aren’t going to go anywhere any time soon. Not when they’re expanding globally, raking in billions of dollars, and now even have contracts with the US military.
I do what I can to try to mitigate the damage BioNex has wrought on the city economy. I support small businesses and human artists. The term “pro-bionic” may be popular right now, but the words “human operated” are trending too. People are noticing what we stand for. People are starting to understand.
I’m upset it took a bombing and the loss of ten lives for people to realize we aren’t some group of crazy android-hating supervillains, like how the media paints us to be.
I’m about to dry my hands when a deafening blast shakes the entire building, including the ground beneath my feet. I’m thrown against the sink, grasping the cold porcelain so I don’t lose my balance. My body goes taut as I desperately fight myanxiety. I’m frozen, my heart pounding. The memories and echoes of the attack a year ago play like a movie mockingly in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the bloodshed I’ve seen and experienced firsthand.
But it can’t be happening again. Surely, this can’t be what I fear it is.
Not again. Please.
Other women in bathroom stalls shriek in surprise. The electricity flickers and then goes out completely. My ears ring. Everything is pitch black.
“What the hell was that?”
“Oh my god, I can’t see!”
“What is happening?”
“Get your phones,” I call to them in a quaking voice, pushing past my own fear when I hear their distress. “Turn on your flashlights. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere until I say so. I work here. I’m going to go see what’s going on.”
I’ve never done well in the dark. Steadying my breathing, I feel my way from sink to sink until I find the wall, and then the door, which is ajar.
Walls and exhibits have collapsed. Cement, wood, and tile lay everywhere in shambles. The afternoon sun illuminates everything above my head, streaming through the skylights. I halt when I see the café.
It’s completely obliterated.
Forcing myself to take one more step, I’m so dazed, so horrified, that I trip and fall. I catch myself on my hands and immediately stand back up as shards of glass and splinters from wooden tables prick my skin and scrape my knees. I try not to hyperventilate as I survey the damage. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. Visitors are in a state of panic, flooding through the front exit doors, threatening to trample anyone and everyonein their path. What security guards remain try to get them to slow down when they knock others over.
The ringing in my ears lessens and fades. That’s when I hear the screaming.
Bodies are littered everywhere on the café floor in unnatural positions, like discarded dolls, surrounded by growing pools of crimson. I count seven of them. Their clothes are shredded by homemade shrapnel—there are nails and screws embedded in the flesh of those closest to the blast. Some of them are unconscious, others are sluggishly trying to move.
