Free ZerOes by Chuck Wendig Page A

limbs swinging like branches. Chance loops the duffel around his back and grunts as he bears its weight, hurrying to catch up. As they walk up over the gravel lot, Chance can see that the tops of the parking canopies are lined with solar panels—photovoltaic octagons. There’s a big building in the center of the complex; standing near it is a tall white post with a trio of triangle-shaped pieces framing it, each like a rack for billiard balls. Chance knows what it is, because they’d put one in not far from his house: a cell tower.
    â€œHey, ain’t you gonna give me the nickel tour?” Chance asks.
    Hollis, without stopping, points. “That’s the main building. That’swhere you eat. There’s a rec room in there, too. On the other side, basketball court and lap pool. Over there”—he points to gray composite pods with black windows, windows through which Chance can see the smeary glow of monitors—“is where you’ll work. Some of the pods are individual. Some of them are team pods. You get assigned ’em as they come up. Past that—”
    Coming up on them is a young Indian or Pakistani kid staring out from behind a set of too-big glasses, like the kind a shop teacher might wear. Walking with him is a wispy sylph in a long tie-dyed dress, her skin so pale that she might as well be one of those see-through anatomy dolls in science class. She’s older by a good bit—not old enough to be Chance’s mother, but definitely, like, older sister age. She turns her gaze away as they pass, looking frightened.
    The boy gives a nervous nod and an anxious laugh ( heh-heh ).
    Hollis gives them a nod. “Dipesh. Miranda. Past that,” he continues, “are the cabins.”
    â€œAnd the Dep? Where is that?”
    â€œYou don’t wanna know about the Dep. Where it is doesn’t matter.”
    â€œWhat the hell is it?”
    â€œLike I said, Mr. Dalton, you don’t want to know.”
    Chance grunts. “All right, fine. Those two that just passed. They hackers, too? Everybody here a hacker?”
    Hollis stops. Turns toward Chance. “Two types of people here, Mr. Dalton. Prisoners and guards. Are the prisoners all hackers? To the number, yes. Are the guards all capable servants of the government who know how to extract results? Yes. All that being said, on a good day, this place is pretty cushy. Not everybody gets along, but everyone plays well together, and on those good days, our relationship is more like babysitters and children . On days when folks don’t get along, that’s when it becomes clear that no matter how nice the view, no matter how fresh the mountain air, you’re still trapped in here until your time is done. And you do what we say.”
    â€œThat’s, uhh, real good to know.” Chance offers a stiff smile.
    â€œSo everyone here is a hacker. Question is, Dalton—are you?”
    I’m not , he thinks. I’m a poser . But he nods. “Yep, yeah, sure.”
    â€œThen let’s go meet your bunkmates.”

    Chance steps into the cabin. The doors must be pretty well sealed against sound inside and out, because soon as he opens the door, the noise of the argument is like a slap to the face.
    â€œâ€”I said I’m an atheist , okay? You don’t need to use language like that around me. I find it offensive,” a young woman says as she plucks shirts out of a carry-on bag. Chance is struck by the intensity of her eyes—dark yet bright at the same time, like chips of shiny coal catching light. She pulls out each article of clothing and folds it with stiff hands and bloodless knuckles, like at any point she might let a shirt drop and haul back and pop the older fella with the gray mop of hair right in his gin blossom nose.
    The old fella says, “Quit it with the politically correct word-police horseshit. I didn’t mean jihad like jihad-jihad, I just meant you were really