broke the story good, Sallie. Sanjay? (Chad touches his earpiece, nods.) Actually, the tuna-custody case is still frozen.
The real story tonight comes to us from the campaign trail, where the Governor is rolling out a new jobs program.
Governor:
Jobs. That’s what people want and that’s why they vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for jobs. Jobs. Job creators. Today we are here to cut the ribbon on a new facility, one that will provide jobs. And not just jobs — we are putting criminals to work. This empty, useless building . . . (The Governor waves.)
Hey, I know that building. It is Frederick Winslow Taylor High School, where I spent 2,942 hours in Room 2-B. I guess it is empty and useless now.
Governor:
This waste government property is going to be put to use as a guano-mining facility. We — our corporate partner is Bats of Happiness — have already seeded in the colonies of bats that will be producing black gold. By next week, the facility will be fully staffed, putting prisoners to work as productive citizens.
Scene:
The Governor steps forward with a pair of giant novelty scissors and cuts the giant novelty ribbon bow. At the same time, the lids on large cardboard boxes are flipped open. The camera focuses on the top of a box. Nothing happens. A guy in overalls appears, grabs the box, and shakes it. Bats fly out. Everyone in the audience claps, except the Governor, who ducks and covers her hair with her hands. Suddenly the camera is flipped down. All it shows is the sidewalk in front of what used to be Room 2-B.
(Back in the studio.)
Chad Manley:
Things can get rough out there on the campaign trail. Wow. Bats. What do you think about bats, Sallie?
I can see a black, flapping shape rise up from behind Sallie Lee’s perfectly coiffed hair.
It jerks
smack!
right into her face.
Sallie Lee:
I . . . (Screaming and flailing.)
Chad Manley:
Don’t be such a girl! It’s just a toy. A bat-able squeaky bat. Available at Petlandia, AllMART! Show her it’s just a toy, Sanjay. Back in a minute . . .
“This here is a matter of life or death.” He waves his arms wide so I know he means his department, the Great Outdoors, Aisles 123–131. I put on my yes-sir-I’m-paying-attention-sir face and look around: shelves that reach to the metal rafter beams where the indoor sparrows nest, a taxidermied polar bear squishing a taxidermied seal, guns in glass display cases, guns on the wall. “Life or death. You get that, zombie?”
“Zoë, I’m Zoë,” I say, and touch my name tag. It doesn’t help much. My tag says ZERO. “You know how it is with the name tags, right, Karl?” I give him half a smile and a tilted-head shrug.
“I’m Kral. My momma named me Kral. You got that, zombie girl? And when I say zombie, I mean you’re one of them that’s not ready. You got you a bugout bag, zombie? You got you a bag that’s got what you need to survive when it hits the fan?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I’m not even lying.
“You got a secure shelter? Someplace to go when you can’t go home?”
I think of the Warren. It isn’t home, but it’s shelter. “Yeah.”
“You got food stores?”
I think about the wall of cereal boxes back at the Warren. “Yeah. We have food.”
“The world is full of crazies.”
I’m looking at one, but I’m not going to mention it.
“You got a gun?”
“No. But I’ve got friends.”
“Unless they’re friends with guns, they aren’t friends.”
I can see the gears shifting in Kral’s head. I’m nothing but a trainee-employee so young I can’t be bonded to handle money — even worse, I’m a gunless zombie. I’m worthless. And he is cursed with the thankless task of teaching me what I need to know to be useful in Aisles 123–131, the Great Outdoors, where it’s a matter of life or death if somebody doesn’t find the vacu-packed dehydrated celery.
At 9:45 p.m., the lights dim. Reducing the lights to 60 percent is a signal to the shoppers that they need to head
The real story tonight comes to us from the campaign trail, where the Governor is rolling out a new jobs program.
Governor:
Jobs. That’s what people want and that’s why they vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for jobs. Jobs. Job creators. Today we are here to cut the ribbon on a new facility, one that will provide jobs. And not just jobs — we are putting criminals to work. This empty, useless building . . . (The Governor waves.)
Hey, I know that building. It is Frederick Winslow Taylor High School, where I spent 2,942 hours in Room 2-B. I guess it is empty and useless now.
Governor:
This waste government property is going to be put to use as a guano-mining facility. We — our corporate partner is Bats of Happiness — have already seeded in the colonies of bats that will be producing black gold. By next week, the facility will be fully staffed, putting prisoners to work as productive citizens.
Scene:
The Governor steps forward with a pair of giant novelty scissors and cuts the giant novelty ribbon bow. At the same time, the lids on large cardboard boxes are flipped open. The camera focuses on the top of a box. Nothing happens. A guy in overalls appears, grabs the box, and shakes it. Bats fly out. Everyone in the audience claps, except the Governor, who ducks and covers her hair with her hands. Suddenly the camera is flipped down. All it shows is the sidewalk in front of what used to be Room 2-B.
(Back in the studio.)
Chad Manley:
Things can get rough out there on the campaign trail. Wow. Bats. What do you think about bats, Sallie?
I can see a black, flapping shape rise up from behind Sallie Lee’s perfectly coiffed hair.
It jerks
smack!
right into her face.
Sallie Lee:
I . . . (Screaming and flailing.)
Chad Manley:
Don’t be such a girl! It’s just a toy. A bat-able squeaky bat. Available at Petlandia, AllMART! Show her it’s just a toy, Sanjay. Back in a minute . . .
“This here is a matter of life or death.” He waves his arms wide so I know he means his department, the Great Outdoors, Aisles 123–131. I put on my yes-sir-I’m-paying-attention-sir face and look around: shelves that reach to the metal rafter beams where the indoor sparrows nest, a taxidermied polar bear squishing a taxidermied seal, guns in glass display cases, guns on the wall. “Life or death. You get that, zombie?”
“Zoë, I’m Zoë,” I say, and touch my name tag. It doesn’t help much. My tag says ZERO. “You know how it is with the name tags, right, Karl?” I give him half a smile and a tilted-head shrug.
“I’m Kral. My momma named me Kral. You got that, zombie girl? And when I say zombie, I mean you’re one of them that’s not ready. You got you a bugout bag, zombie? You got you a bag that’s got what you need to survive when it hits the fan?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I’m not even lying.
“You got a secure shelter? Someplace to go when you can’t go home?”
I think of the Warren. It isn’t home, but it’s shelter. “Yeah.”
“You got food stores?”
I think about the wall of cereal boxes back at the Warren. “Yeah. We have food.”
“The world is full of crazies.”
I’m looking at one, but I’m not going to mention it.
“You got a gun?”
“No. But I’ve got friends.”
“Unless they’re friends with guns, they aren’t friends.”
I can see the gears shifting in Kral’s head. I’m nothing but a trainee-employee so young I can’t be bonded to handle money — even worse, I’m a gunless zombie. I’m worthless. And he is cursed with the thankless task of teaching me what I need to know to be useful in Aisles 123–131, the Great Outdoors, where it’s a matter of life or death if somebody doesn’t find the vacu-packed dehydrated celery.
At 9:45 p.m., the lights dim. Reducing the lights to 60 percent is a signal to the shoppers that they need to head
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