by Cameron Jace
As for me, I don’t know what to think. But there is this ball of fire flaming in my chest. I think the only way to put it out is to either watch the Pillar die or kill him myself.
49
Outside the Asylum
In the eyes of the public, the Pillar and his Mushroomers looked as insane as The Three Stooges were. With their blankets covering them like two-cent beggars, they trudged with reluctance toward the police outside, along with the rest of the crowd. The scene should have been intense — the police capturing the most wanted terrorist in the world — but it was absurdly comical at best.
“Right now we’re witnessing a most memorable moment in history,” said the BBC reporter sent to cover the situation in the field. “It almost reminds one of Osama Bin Laden. Killa da Pilla might be worse, or, at least, the modern version of a terrorist in our age.”
Behind her the crowd had been chained into a breath-taking silence. So intense that whispers were very audible.
“Look at his eyes,” a woman told her friend. “Look at the hatred in his eyes.”
“And that suit,” her friend replied. “He is a lunatic.”
Nonchalantly, the Pillar wheeled himself forward with one hand, the other smoking a pipe. He strolled like a man who’d just woken up and was ready for his first shot of caffeine of the day. He also smiled, provocatively. Grinning at the cameras.
“You don’t have the right to smoke. You’re a criminal,” a police officer stopped him, pointing his gun at him.
“Oh,” the Pillar said and threw it away, only to pull out a banana from his pocket. “Nothing against peeling bananas though, right?”
The officer hesitated. “I’m not sure. I will have to check the regulations on that.”
“Don’t bother,” said the Pillar. “I’ll have it finished before you finish your bureaucratic check. Could you tell the Queen I want to speak to her before the police take me to jail?”
The officer hesitated again, but the Queen had heard. With a smug look on her face she signaled for the Pillar to approach.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The Pillar clapped his hands free and threw away the banana peel. He began wheeling himself closer.
“Remember that all the guns are pointed at you, Pillar,” the Queen reminded him.
“I’m as harmless as a squirrel. Don’t worry. May my fellow terrorists approach, too?”
“Not them,” she said. “Once I hear what you have to say, they’ll be handcuffed and shipped to the worst prison in the world. As will you.”
“I’m humbled with your generosity, Your Majesty.” The Pillar advanced more.
The Queen knew something was off. She didn’t quite get the Pillar’s act. Why would he confess to being a terrorist? Why would he not burst out in public and tell them about Wonderland?
But she didn’t mind. The public wouldn’t believe any of this nonsense. The public wanted a cold-served revenge.
The Pillar stopped too close, so much so that her guards and the police tensed with their guns.
“That’s enough,” she said. “What do you have to say to the public? Do you want to admit your crime and ask for forgiveness?”
“I’d rather ask for a Coke and double-cheese burger with Brazilian nuts,” the Pillar said.
The crowd booed all around.
“You’re not winning any points here,” the Queen remarked.
“That’s because I’m not playing this game.”
“So we’re here to chitchat in front of the cameras? Are you seeking your fifteen minutes of fame on TV?”
“Normally, I’d want to tell you something like: you’re a short and stocky human poop with a crown on top,” the Pillar said. “But I’m a polite guy. I wouldn’t belittle our queen.”
“I think this discussion is over,” the Queen said. “One more insult and my guards will have the right to shoot you.”
“But of course. So farewell, Your Majesty.” The Pillar grinned without emotion. A plastic grin of undecipherable intentions. “However, before I go I’d like to tell you something on behalf of the people of Britain.”
“Yeah?” the Queen mocked him. “And what do the people of Britain want to say to me?”
“One word, Your Majesty,” the Pillar said. He pulled a rifle from under the blanket he had rested on his lap, then shot her, splattering her head open like watermelon splashing down from a ten story fall. “One loud word, Your Majesty.”
50
The Radcliffe Asylum
I cup Constance’s eyes and bury her head into my chest so she doesn’t see what the Pillar just did. One of the cameras covering the situation is splashed with blood on live TV. It seems like the camera man hasn’t noticed yet and is in shock.
The surprise is too heavy that everything seems to happen in slow motion all around. Screams and panic seem distant to my ears, even the things broadcast are blurry for a moment. In a million years I didn’t expect what the Pillar just did.
“I want to see!” Constance pulls herself from under my arms.
“You’re too young to see this,” I say.
“Blood, killing? Are you serious?” Constance says. “It’s all over the news on TV all day. Most of the games I play contain worse scenes than this.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Tom steps closer to the TV, staring in horror. Then he pops down five pills in a row. “That stupid Pillar is going to get us all killed!”
Can’t argue with that, either.
“Are we going to be okay, Alice?” The March falters under the pressure and longs for my hug.
Instead, it’s Constance who pats him. “Be strong, March. You’re not a kid anymore.”
Can’t stop admiring this little girl.
“I think I should push the button now,” Tom says. “They will be in a rage and will want to kill us right away.”
“Just give it some time,” I suggest. “They won’t do it right away. Wait until we understand what’s really going on.”
“What do you mean by that?” Tom barks at me. “The Pillar just shot the Queen of England!”
“I noticed,” I say. “But it’s not over yet.” I point at the TV. Whatever the Pillar’s plan is, he is not finished yet…
51
The Radcliffe Asylum
I watch the Mushroomers spread sideways in every direction, each of them empowered with a gun as well. They start shooting at the police, though God knows they’re lousy shooters. I wonder what the Pillar told them to do.
The whole scene is a mess of people running in every direction. Every once in a while, a camera stops broadcasting, presumably having been kicked by the panicking crowd. The headline of the Queen being shot in the head is plastered on every news channel. It’s seriously hard to believe this is happening.
But in all this mess, my eyes are looking for the Pillar.
Finally, I glimpse him wheeling himself among the crowd, now covered underneath the blanket. The wheel chair is soon destroyed by the masses and he has to limp up with the rifle in his hand.
A camera man seems to have identified him and focuses on him. I stick to that channel, wondering where he is going. He is definitely not kind to the crowd he meets as he shoots a couple of the Queen’s guards on the way.
Where are you going, Pillar? What are you thinking?
It crosses my mind that he is escaping. A thought that terrifies me and urges me to grip my rifle, in case I’ll have to get out and chase after him. But I see an easier path to the west side, which he hasn’t taken. The Pillar would recognize such an easy chance to get out of this. So where is he heading?
Slowly, it seems like he is heading toward the Queen’s limousine.
The camera shakes all of a sudden, covering the broadcast is over. But then I realize the camera man pulled it off its tripod and decided to follow the Pillar on foot. It’s like a horror footage camera movie now, where we follow the situation from inside out.
Except this camera man is focused on the Pillar.
The limousine’s window is half open. Margaret Kent’s head sticks out, pleading at the Pillar not to kill her. She even promises him to get his one-handed relative to win the Wimbledon Tennis Tournament, like the Pillar had asked her the first time I’d ever seen her.
Then she pleads for her life. “Don’t kill me, Pillar,” she squeaks. “You don’t understand. I’m not really one of them.”
The Pillar loads his rifle, kicks an annoying passerby, then aims to shoot her.
“You’re supposed to be one of us, too!”
“You just said you’re not one of them,” the Pillar said. “So your sentence doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s metaphorical. You know what I mean.”
“Margaret Kent.” The Pillar is about to shoot her. “Prepare to die.”
Margaret puts up the window, hiding behind it.
“Seriously?” the Pillar muses, then glances back at the camera man, as if making sure his execution of the Duchess will be caught on TV.
Then something happens. Another hit I’m not prepared for.
The Pillar shoots the window open, but Margaret is still alive. Then, Lorina screams from inside, then Jack.
My heart almost stops.
It’s not flattering seeing Lorina in Jack’s arms, but it’s heart-stopping realizing the Pillar will shoot.
“Stop!” I stand up in place, fully aware that none of my None Fu powers will get them to hear me, or allow me to run as fast as I can to stop the Pillar. It’s just a lame, weak attempt to numb my mind from the pain that’s about to attack me.
“He wouldn’t shoot Jack,” the March wails behind me. “Would he?”
I watch the Pillar aim again.
In my darkest hour, a small hand holds mine, so tight, and so gentle. It’s Constance. I glimpse her looking up at me, horrified, sympathizing, understanding. She really does understand what’s happening to me now.
It’s not just that the Pillar might shoot Jack, but it’s that the man who’s killed my family is about to kill… the last of my family; Jack.
“He wouldn’t do it,” Constance tells me. “He’s not that dark of a man…”
But her words mean nothing. The Pillar takes the shot, and I watch the car explode.
52
The Vatican
Angelo was buttoning his white shirt while watching the Queen’s head split open.
“Ouch,” he said. “That’s freaking awesome.”
The man in black’s lips tightened. Angelo was not only getting drunker by the minute, but meaner. This was going to be disastrous. The crowd outside had been waiting for too long. And now that the Queen had been killed by this Pillar terrorist, they were getting furious, demanding justice, demanding a stronger pope, one who’d stand in the face of evil and stop this terrorism all over the world.
And even though the prophecy claimed it would be Angelo to take that stand, it seemed very unlikely at the moment.
“Did you just see that?” Angelo aimed his forefinger as if they were guns in the wild, wild west. “Pow. Pow.”
“That’s the Queen of England who got shot,” the man commented. “It’s exactly what you shouldn’t be happy about.”
Angelo shrugged, tying his own tie.
“People are expecting you to help them, to stand up for them, not cheer for the killing of the Queen of England.”
“Sorry,” Angelo said. “It’s the whiskey.”
“I know, but you need to sober up.”
“I’m sober now.”
“You’re not.”
“Trust me, I am. Let’s talk to the people.”
“In this white outfit with a cravat you’re wearing?”
“What’s wrong with it? Angels wear white.”
“But not modern trousers and a shirt. They don’t wear cravats.”
“Now that’s something you can’t prove. Who said they don’t wear cravats?”
“They just don’t.”
“Would you go speak to your honorable father without dressing properly?”
“No?” The man in black seemed confused.
“So do angels. I bet they wear cravats when meeting God.”
“Ah.” The man in black mopped his forehead. The situation was getting worse by the minute. “I think your speech should wait.”
“You’re wrong.” Angelo’s demeanor suddenly changed. An evil, indecipherable look gleamed in his eyes. “I should speak to them now. Drunk, unshaven, and improbably dressed.”
“Why is that?”
Angelo gripped the man in black by the throat and pressed lightly. “Did you really just ask me why?”
“I’m sorry.” The man in black choked. “But I’d really like to know why.”
“Okay.” Angelo’s face tightened, his whiskey breath all over the man’s face. “Here is why.”
The man in black watched as Angelo clicked his iPhone and music began to play again. This time to give an answer to the man’s question. It was James Brown singing, again: I feel good, tarararara!
“That’s why!”
53
The Radcliffe Asylum
While Tom discusses Constance’s situation, she is about to crawl into the hole, and I am still glued to the TV.
Scanning all the channels, I’m hoping they’d cover the situation with the limousine explosion. But the Queen’s death is taking priority. The Assassination of the Century they’re calling it now.
The conspiracy theorist channels, however, are making fun of the death. They’re vowing to print shirts with a smoking gun on the front and the words The People of England Have Something to Say on the back.
Still, Jack’s situation isn’t talked about.
“Forget about it for now,” the March says to me, trying to be as gentle as possible. “If Jack’s dead, there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Of course there is.” I fist my grip again. “I should have shot the killer in the chest when he was here.”
“Then you’d better focus with us on trying to monitor Constance as she crawls through the hole.”
I nod and step up to see what’s going on. In the Pillar’s cell, Tom is standing alone.
“Where is Constance?”
“She is inside,” Tom says. “She’s a brave girl. I gave a her a walkie-talkie and a tiny flashlight.”
I take the walkie-talkie from him. “Constance. Can you hear me?”
“I’m here Alice,” the poor girl coughs back.
“You should have told me you were going before you entered.”
“We only have three hours. It’s okay. I can do it. I’ve been trapped in a similarly tight place by the Cheshire, remember?”
This paints a smile on my face, but puts a dagger in my heart as well. Constance was my first mission. My first love. The first hug I’d had after so many years in the asylum. Guilt is eating me up for letting her go into the hole.
“I remember.”
“You saved me that day,” Constance says. “Now it’s my turn to save you.”
The March is about to cry behind me. Tom is just tapping an impatient foot on the floor.
“I’m sure you will,” I tell her. “Is the hole getting tighter or anything? You should crawl back if that’s the case.”
“It’s not, but there is no crawling back now, unless I manage to crawl backwards, which I can’t do.”
“Are you breathing well?”
“Not really, but that’s not what bothers me.”
“Then what bothers you, Constance? Tell me, please.”
“The shit.”
“What?” Her vulgar language startles me at first, but then I remember she isn’t a regular seven-year-old.
“The tunnel is turning into some sort of sewer tube. I can smell it in the distance. I see floating shit.”
“My God.” I grit my teeth and close my eyes. “Constance. Come back. That’s an order. I don’t care if you have to crawl backwards.”
“And then what?”
“Just do as I say!”
Tom interferes as usual. I need to put him on a leash or something. “Why not turn off the flashlight? That way you won’t see the shit.”
“Tom,” Constance says. “You’re stupid.”
The March laughs heartily at Tom.
“Talk to me, Constance,” I demand. “Tell me you’re coming back.”
“No, I’m not. Instead of wasting time with me, I think you should listen to the March. He told me he found new things about Patient 14.”
My gaze shifts toward him. I tilt my head. He nods, and I am curious what he found out.
“Are you going to be all right, Constance?”
“I will,” she says with confidence. “It’s either shit or dead.”
54
“What did you find out?” I ask the March.
We’re standing in the corridor, away from Tom. I don’t want him to know. If there is an imposter among us, then he is my number one suspect. Besides, he has to keep an eye on Constance. Though I don’t trust him, I know he will do his best to help her because he wants out of here.
“The writing on the walls still has more to deliver,” he says.
“Like what?”
“The Mushroomers found a part mentioning that Patient 14 possesses all the needed knowledge about the Six Keys.”
“That’s a bit farfetched, don’t you think?”
“It’s what’s written on the walls. It also explains why Waltraud and Ogier were torturing him and everyone else.”
“They wanted to know the location of Keys?”
“Exactly,” the March says. “At least that’s the reason why they tortured Patient 14. This also confirms that the writing on the wall in your cell was his, not yours.”
“Is that all?”
“There is one vague line that explains that only he, Patient 14, knows the Keys’ location, purpose, and that only he has all of them.”