Authors: Thomas Blackthorne
Tags: #fight, #Murder, #tv, #Meaney, #near, #future, #John, #hopolophobia, #reality, #corporate, #knife, #manslaughter
Edge (44 page)
"And what else?"
"I have a lot more to say, Suzanne. The thing is, I came here to ask for help. My timing may be awful, but I have to show you this."
He raised his phone and angled it towards the wallscreen.
"If this is official," said Suzanne, "then shouldn't you be checking for eavesdroppers, or something?"
"We already did." Steve/Adam's mouth twitched. "You're clean."
Dead people showed on screen.
"Oh, no," said Suzanne.
"Right," said Steve.
Sprawled, limbs angled and twisted, all of them teenagers, arranged in what might have been a circle before they slumped at random and died. Those with long-sleeved garments had the left sleeves pushed up, revealing inner forearms and the longitudinal gashes in soft flesh.
The pool of blood they lay in was almost black.
"Suicide pact." Suzanne felt phlegm in her throat. "Thirteen teenagers. With drugs or alcohol in their systems?"
"That's what the experts expected," said Steve.
"Oh. The post-mortem's been done?"
"A while back."
Suzanne could not look away. There was movement in the image, only because the camera's operator was alive and changing angles. The dead things on the floor would never move again, not of their own volition.
"Thirteen," she said. "Possibly a significant number."
"Besides being unlucky, are there any associations or meanings you know of?"
"I don't think so." Her face felt strange, tightening as if to weep, while her eyes were dry but stinging. "Thirteen dead kids. Awful."
"No." Sad and soft, Steve's voice lowered. "Not thirteen."
"I make it–"
"One hundred and sixty-two," he said. "We thought when it reached thirteen times thirteen, the deaths would stop. Today we found out we were wrong."
"Oh my God. Oh no."
So many teenagers, unaware that their isolation was shared by billions, including every adult in the past, for everyone lives through it. Or takes the despairing way out.
"We've done everything to keep this quiet," said Steve. "That's why, if you agree to help, you'll need to sign the Official–"
"Keep it
quiet
?"
quiet
?"
"Yes. To stop it spreading."
Suzanne blinked at the awfulness on screen.
"That's impossible. Burying news like this."
"You'd be surprised, but it's not easy."
Awful, awful, awful.
"Thought contagion," she said. "Memetic cascade. A crazy idea that spreads like a fad."
"That's what we think."
"Spreading even though you've buried the news."
"Right." Steve's voice was like grating bones. "And when it gets out, what's going to happen then?"
That was the worst thought of all.
"An epidemic," said Suzanne.
Whenever a suicide is reported in the news, fatal traffic accidents increase, because they are not truly accidents. Even the death wish is contagious.
"Exactly."
"A suicide epidemic."
Steve said nothing.
I didn't even know your real name.
And now this, when Josh was gone, and surely needed her.
Yet you expect me to help.
Their flesh was white-grey in the image. Every eye was opaque, creamy with death as proteins decayed.
"I'll do what I can," she said.
Because she did not have a job – she had a calling, and helping people was it.
I have to.
For the first time in years, the silver scars inside her arms began to burn.
Go deeper.
POINT
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