Free The Turning by Davis Bunn

“You’re up, Mr. Cooper.”
    He rose on unsteady legs and walked to the closed double doors. But as Gayle started to open the door, he said, “You’re clear on the task and the timing?” He was entering the conference room the same way he had the first time, empty-handed, without notes or tablet. Gayle’s eyebrows raised, but the only thing she said was, “I would have hoped that by now you would know I am both a pro, and trustworthy, Mr. Cooper.”
    “Call both numbers immediately. Tell the first person, three minutes. The second, five minutes.”
    “Duly noted.” Before she shut the door, she murmured, “Good luck.”
    The simple gesture should not have meant as much as it did. Trent walked unescorted to the head of the table. Today, the conference room was jammed. Each of the division chiefs was joined by two aides—standard format, Trent now knew. They called such larger meetings the action board. They were not there merely to decide. Whenever an idea was approved, it was also set in motion. Budgets granted, targets set. Future careers set in place.
    Or destroyed.
    He had less than ten minutes to prove himself.
    “All right, Cooper.” Barry Mundrose was again flanked by his daughter and, this time, the head of his film division. The son was back in Canada. Trent had no idea whether that was a good thing or not. “You’ve got the floor.”
    Trent began, “The fastest growing profit center within the entertainment industry is dystopia. This is the term collectively used for a phenomenon that includes a myriad of directions. But it all is based upon one core concept. The Generation Xers and the Millennials fundamentally disagree with the assumption that tomorrow is a better day. They reject the notion that the future holds greater promise. Today’s youth reject these concepts. They are scorned as myths belonging to a different era.”
    The younger executives who crowded the space between the table and the walls were trained in the same blank expressions as the directors who lined the table’s opposite end. But there were no smirks, no whispered asides. They sat and they listened. Trent took that as a good sign. He heard the clock ticking in his head, and hurried on.
    “Dystopia, the opposite of utopia, is a word drawn from this grim forecast. Our two target generations see the future as bleak. There aren’t enough jobs. The world is dying. The environment won’t be saved. There aren’t answers to all the problems. Wars are growing worse, peace is a myth, politicians are liars. This trend is playing out in entertainment. The current zombie and vampire series are perfect examples of dystopian trends.
    “But our goal today is not to identify what has worked in the past. Our aim is to establish a
new
trend. One that
we
own. We create it, we build upon it, and most important of all, we profit from it.”
    A growing din outside the window rose in volume to filter through the triple panes of heat-hardened glass. The diaphanous blinds were down, blocking out the grey daylight and the flickering advertising screens around Times Square. Trent pulled an electronic control from his pocket and drew back the curtains. “What we want is a theme that echoes what these generations already feel but have not yet put into words. It must grow organically from their impressions of the world. It must give voice to their hidden secrets.”
    Barry Mundrose shifted impatiently. “We’ve got that. So tell us what this new theme is.”
    “I’ll do better than that,” Trent replied. “I will
show
you.”
    As if on cue, the square below erupted. The clamor lifted the entire executive board from their seats. They gaped at the mob spilling off the sidewalks and pouring into the streets.
    Today’s crowd was huge. Twenty thousand, thirty, forty—the numbers no longer mattered. They were every color, every race. Most wore some concoction of mask and mascara, creating a bizarre array of ghouls and vampires and werewolves and