Read The Last Girl for Free Online Page A

they’re going to quit looking.”
    A bleep comes from the intercom, and Assistant Carter’s weak voice slithers after it.
    “You may enter.”
    There is a click, and the double doors before them unlock.
    The assembly is a circular room with tiered seating. It is meant, like so many other places in the ARC, to hold vast crowds. But there is only the short filing of people that fill the bottommost rows, their numbers barely rising past sixty. The women move to the very first row that sits below a platform where a podium has been placed. A banner emblazoned with the NOA seal, a wreath of red flames surrounding the dark acronym, hangs from the podium’s front. A larger banner extends from the ceiling. To the far right is a set of doors that Zoey knows lead to the infirmary. She’s looked at them from the opposite side before when having her monthly checkup. She imagines the other set of doors on the far side of the infirmary, the ones that are solid steel, always locked, a guard permanently stationed beside them.
    She swallows the lump in her throat.
    Everyone takes their seats and the auditorium quiets. Without flourish, the doors to the infirmary open and a pair of doctors, garbed in their white scrubs, take positions on either side of the entry. Assistant Carter is next.
    He is a direct representation of his voice.
    Carter is in his late thirties with shining hair slicked tight against his oblong skull. His nose is long and pointed, nearly hooked at the end above two bright red lips. He is thin and swims in his three-piece suit, the only thing she’s ever seen him dressed in. The ridiculous yellow tie he wears hangs almost to his belt. His eyes flow over the women first, and a sneer that Zoey supposes is his best smile crawls onto his face. He moves to the edge of the low stage and waits, rubbing his palms together as if he’s touched something wet and is drying them, or enjoying the feel of the moistness.
    Two guards appear in the doorway a second later, followed by the Director himself.
    He is a tall man, well built, with stately, iron-gray hair raked back from a wide brow. His face is ruddy, akin to the snipers’ visages she’s seen, as if he spends most of his time outside in the wind rather than within the walls. His eyes are a crisp blue, so sharp and piercing they remind her of pinpoints. The Director walks with a casual air to the stage and gives them all a smile as he takes his place behind the microphone. Up close, he appears younger rather than older, his healthy color glowing beneath the powerful lights.
    “Good afternoon, everyone,” the Director says into the small microphone growing from the podium. “Thank you all for coming.”
    “As if we had a choice,” Meeka breathes out of the side of her mouth. Zoey bites the inside of her lip.
    The Director seems to pause to collect his thoughts. His bright eyes focus on the podium top before he gazes out at them. “The Phoenix is a mythical creature from Greek lore often portrayed as a fiery and noble bird. It is said the Phoenix could live thousands of years before succumbing to death, and typically it died and was reborn through fire. The sentiment is not uncommon. The idea of a second chance, of rebirth, of renewing one’s hopes and dreams. One could say it is our destiny, our fate within the human condition to always hold onto hope of redemption even if it is the last thread that connects us to life.”
    The Director pauses, scanning the faces of the women. Zoey looks past him when his eyes stop on her, letting her gaze rest on the blankness of the wall behind him. Someone coughs quietly. “You women are that thread. You are our hope for rebuilding the world that once was. The world itself, you see, was a Phoenix. For millions of years mankind built upon the bones of his ancestors, toiling away for a better future. The fire of industry burned bright, and we reveled in our discoveries. You’ve seen in your texts that man has stepped upon the moon.