ULTIMATE FANTASY (I - III)

by J. G. Cuff

  John dropped the bat, and it clanged against the pavement with a wet thud. He knelt down beside the bodies with his hands behind his head, and surrendered himself peacefully to the police.

  He was found guilty for the premeditated murder of one man and guilty of the attempted murder of the other. The man, who had shot and killed his wife and son, somehow survived the brutal assault. Nathan Briggs would spend fourteen months in a hospital, having his body put back together. He would never walk or look the same again. But he would survive.

  John was sentenced to death by electrocution and taken to The Huntsville Unit, Texas State Penitentiary. After two and a half years on the dead man's row, a determined young lawyer named Anton Barton, successfully appealed John's case after he established that John Bruin was a schizophrenic and a mentally unstable product of severe trauma—a true living casualty of war.

  The judge had taken into consideration that John was a decorated war hero and that he had received an honorable silver star for having saved the lives of 28 men in a daring rescue in Normandy in 1944. The judge had also taken into account that the two men John had attacked were well known criminals. John's transfer was signed and he was to live out the rest of his days at the San Antonio State Hospital.

  A dead patient is awful news to the hospital board.

  The doctors on staff were relieved that John had come back from his coma. When they had examined him thoroughly, they decided to keep him lightly sedated every day before bedtime and in full restraints during the day. He was now on a suicide watch and Charlie did everything he could to make him comfortable.

  It was late afternoon, two days after his awakening, and the winter sun was setting fast. A pretty, middle-aged nurse with almond-white hair entered his room with a long syringe and gave him a shot in left thigh to help him sleep. John groaned low in discomfort and clenched his fists tightly.

  After she left, Charlie came in from the hallway with his cart and caringly patted John's warm forehead with a cool, wet cloth. Charlie had a beautiful voice. He sang quietly to John, soothing the big man's tortured soul with Bing Crosby's White Christmas. It was one of John's favorites.

  As the winter light faded to darkness and the snow lightly drifted down outside of his barred window, John closed his heavy eyelids and slowly drifted away—back into the Queen's Realm.

  THIRTEEN YEARS

  22

  EAVY footsteps sounded through the darkness, echoing into the small stone chamber, awakening the prisoner inside. He knew the sound of the man's footsteps by memory and he could tap each echo with his finger against his leg, as the tower guard climbed the stairs.

  It must be the middle of the night, he guessed, as he sat up from under a pile of heavy furs and pushed aside the long, silver strands of hair that hung in his face. He slowly rubbed his eyes in the cold blackness. The clouds had buried the moon tonight, and he was virtually blind.

  The tiny figurines he had carved out of soap over the years with his finger nails had been his only companions. He spoke with them often. There were more than 100 of them, lined up along the floor beside his bed. Every one of their faces in fine detail, was in the likeness of Marcus. Terrified that he may forget how his son looked when he last saw him, he had desperately tried to preserve his memory. For 13 years, Atticus Sloane had rotted in his cell; his mind and body, slowly decaying in the low light and low nutrition. For 13 years, Marcus screamed to him from out of an endless plague of dark dreams. Atticus was truly haunted. He had kept the boy's ear, until it rotted and shrunk into a hideous, hardened chip. It was not the way he wanted to remember his son. He had thrown the box with the body-part inside out of the slit in his wall, where it fell and smashed apart on the rock ledge, to have the winds sweep its remnants over the bluff, and down to the sea-shore below.

  He could hear Horace now, on the landing, just a few hours before the sunrise. Horace had secretly gathered a few things from the guard house downstairs. After years of small talk and greetings at the door, they had shared much with one another. Horace had been feeding Atticus and changing his water since the day he arrived. But today was different. They both knew that it was the last time that they would ever see each other again. In four days, Atticus would be led out of his cell for the first and very last time.

  After nearly 23 years of service to the Tower Guard, Horace was leaving Amicitia for the northern lands where he was born. His wife and two teenaged daughters would travel with him to build a new home in the Brumal Territories. They had two sons who had already packed and left the week before, and Horace was excited to join them. They had purchased a claim to a mining plot, where it was said that with hard work, precious metals could be melted from the stone.

  Riding on large rusted hinges, the heavy slab of wood groaned, as it slowly moved outward to the landing. Torchlight from the stone wall outside, spilled through the doorway, reaching the bed on the floor to reveal what looked more like an animal than a man, covered in bear and wolf pelts. Horace did not bother with the shackles this time. He trusted Atticus enough. There was nowhere for him to run, even if he did get past the door. Besides, Horace had his hands full this morning.

  He cleared his throat and spoke quietly from the doorway.

  “Atticus, here are the things you requested.”

  Atticus quickly moved from his bed to meet the guard, looking carefully at the bundle underneath his big left arm.

  “Let me see what you've brought.”

  The guard stepped forward and handed Atticus three small pieces of yellowed paper and a thick leather roll, tied around the center with a thin string.

  The silver-haired, skeletal prisoner knelt in the torchlight and gently opened the leather wrap and spread it open across the stone floor, revealing a large yellow candle and an eagle's quill.

  “You must write all that you can, before the morning light. After that, I'll be gone,” said Horace hastily.

  “Yes, yes, Horace,” Atticus replied, waving his hand, as though he were a lectured child. “Where is the ink?”

  “I couldn't get you that, but the quill's near full at the tip. You’ll have to write small.”

  Atticus sighed disappointed, yet he was grateful for the guard's efforts.

  “Hand me the candle,” said Horace with his hand out. Atticus picked it up and reached it to him. Horace walked out to the landing and lit the stubby, black wick off of the oil torch on the wall against the stairs.

  Atticus picked up the precious quill and paper and placed them on the small wooden table beside his bed. Horace stepped into his cell and handed the lighted candle to him.

  “Thank you Horace. Now, I have much to write if my parents are to ever know the truth before I die.”

  Atticus had always hoped to escape his confinement. Soon enough that day would come. He was relieved. His only lament was that he would never have the opportunity to avenge his son's murder. The council had delivered execution notices to the guard commander at the towers. Number 47, who was serving a life sentence, was to be publicly killed in the Amicitia square, along with 34 other prisoners. It had been decided that persons serving terms of more than 10 years were to be removed from their cells and exterminated. Captain Bruce was right again.

  It was to be a two day event, honoring the queen, and expected to draw massive crowds. The method of death would depend on the crime or crimes committed. Hangings were painful, but not for long if the neck snapped right. Beheading was the fastest and quickest way to go—no pain, unless the executioner missed and accidentally hacked into the back of the skull first. Burnings were almost the worse. While fastened upright to a wooden pole with branches and kindle baled and tied about the feet and legs; the flames would swell and cook the screamer alive. Most would survive for a few minutes at most, before they suffocated on the smoke.

  Atticus did not know it yet, but his supposed crimes would earn him the worst death of all—a slow and excruciating punishment, intended solely to draw out as much pain as was humanly possible.
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  Atticus Sloane was to be tied to the breaking wheel. They would lay him sprawled out on his back, with his arms and legs spread across the spokes of a large wagon wheel, set onto its side in the ground. His wrists and ankles wound be bound to the heavy wooden spindles. They would announce his crimes, and for the rape and murder of a young girl and the killing of a Queen's Guard, the crowd would be cheering for the man with the cudgel in his hand.

  Just to keep him alive, they would save his face and skull for last. Starting with his feet and hands, a man would bludgeon his limbs with a wooden club until every bone in his body was all but shattered.

  The public killings would serve an obvious dual purpose—setting an example for a new generation, while saving the city from having to feed and house their worst criminals. Most people were already offended that their taxes put food into the bellies of bastards.

  Under the circumstances, and at the risk of being punished himself, Horace had agreed to help Atticus get a secret letter delivered to his family—one last good deed for number 47 in tower nine. Horace had heard all about Marcus and the things that had happened. Over time and conversation, he eventually listened to his heart and decided that he believed Atticus' story.

  Atticus imagined how shocked Darius and Aunna would be when they read his words; to know that he was alive all these years, only hours away. He wondered how long they may have searched for him. It made him very sad. The letter he was sending would surely be a double-edged sword.

  Horace nodded and closed the door, locking it behind him. Atticus was thrilled to have a flame in his cell for the first time, and to be able to write again. Pulling his small chair up to the table, he sat down and glanced at the white scars on his left hand, protruding in the yellow light. He shivered, remembering the day it happened. Atticus turned to the blank page in front of him, and he began to write his last letter.

  Mother and Father, I pray this message finds you well. I tried to think of how to say this without giving you wreck. There is no easy way. Marcus was killed the day after your last visit. It is my guess that you may still be searching for us. I can't imagine what you've been through, nor you I. Tonight, as I write this; I am prisoner 47 in the ninth Gehenna Tower. Soon, I will be free again. Do not travel here. I will already be dead by the time you've read this.

  Atticus stopped and rested the quill on the table beside the candle. The memories coming back to him were painful. He stood to clear his thoughts. He had so much to tell them.

  He walked to the sliver in his wall and placed his hands, one atop of the other, inside the narrow gap; resting them on the cold stone. Gazing out into the clouded, dark horizon, he was with Alina again.

  It was midsummer and he had picked her flowers; blue and white blooms from beside a cool, shaded stream, underneath the branches of a weeping willow. The slender green tips of its soft, narrow leaves swept gently in the calm flowing water. It was their secret place, where they could be together. The young lovers spent many warm afternoons, naked on a large soft quilt. When they had exhausted one another, they bathed in the clear stream.

  Atticus gently brushed her long light hair while she sang to him softly. They were elated to have a child coming. He kissed her rounded belly and smiled, resting his cheek against her.

  “What shall we name her?” Alina asked him, grazing her fingertips through his hair.

  “Alina,” he whispered.

  She smiled. “Yes, Alina is fine, if you don't mind having two of us around. And if I have a boy?”

  Atticus had already chosen a name and he hoped she would agree.

  “Marcus, after my grandfather.”

  She bent her head down and kissed his ear.

  “Marcus is perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  Atticus gently moved up on top of her and they fell back onto the warm blanket to make love again.

  He pulled himself away from the arrow slit and returned to the candlelight to finish his work. When all three sides of all three pages were covered in his scrawl, and the quill's ink began to give way to gray streaks, the sound of Horace's familiar footsteps echoed once again through the door. Atticus tightly folded the papers and had them ready in his hand, just as the lock turned and the door opened. Horace took the papers from him and quickly tucked them into his shirt against his chest. He would later seal them at home and then bring them along to meet with a trusted friend in Solarium; a supplier who traveled weekly between the city and small villages, delivering supplies to and from the many merchants and farmers. It would be the last stop in the Sparrow Vale for Horace and his girls before turning north. The supplier would know the family name to ask for and he would deliver the letter to the Sloanes in the southern Sparrow Vale.

  The late autumn sun would rise within the hour, and the morning guards would soon take their posts. Horace blew out the candle and collected the quill. As he was closing the cell door, he paused and looked up at his prisoner. The two men only nodded to one another, saying nothing. The guard turned and locked the thick door behind him. Atticus listened to his quieting footsteps, as he made his way back down the spiraling stairs for the last time.

  He went back to his bed on the floor and crawled under the warm furs. It was so quiet; no wind, no rain; nothing but the sweet stillness of his cage. He wondered how they would execute him. It didn't really matter now, as long as he could find Marcus, somewhere on the other side. For the first time in 13 years, Atticus Sloane closed his eyes and waded into a peaceful sleep.

  WHITE LIGHTENING

  23

  E wondered which one was nine. Standing at the prison gates in the morning darkness, just before the dawn, his ice-blue eyes studied the towers rising high into the starlight above the stone walls. Only one chance to time it right, or they would both be dead. The spell would not last long before it exhausted him and he would have to let go. There was no magic in his blood. If there was, he would have plenty of time to shake the towers down, and no one would have any way to stop him. But he was no sorcerer. He had only felt it twice before in the previous days, and each time he had, it became harder to control, and he exhausted and fell after only a few moments in the creature's skin. The blade sheathed on his back, waited to feel his grip again; unleashing the monster hidden within. It was his only ticket inside and back out of the ancient prison.

  The letter had told him where to go; where to find the box, and where his Atticus was. When he finally broke the rocks away and dug into the cavern at the edge of the Void, he was overjoyed to find a treasure. But when he smashed the crate open, it was not what he was expecting. He already owned a sword; a gift from ol' Tom Raine, who had trained him well how to use it. It wasn't until he turned around and read the inscription on the broken splinters, while holding the blade in his hand, that he realized how great of a treasure it truly was. His plan was to breach the prison gates and locate Atticus quickly, before the spell wore off, grab him, and then charge out to the eastern wall where he had a rope waiting. Earlier that night, he had tied his horse at the edge of a nearby meadow in the forest beside the prison, and then he climbed a large tree neighboring the 30ft eastern wall. He waited in the branches above, and when the patrol guards had finished lighting the 12ft-high inner wall torches with their long pitch poles, he tied one end of the rope to the branch and then tossed the other end over into the prison, 7ft above the ground, where it now rested nearly invisible in between the torches.

  He glanced at the gatehouse to his left, breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and reached behind his head with his left hand. The blade escaped the scabbard with an eerie silence, and while holding it out in front of him with his hands clenched tightly around the hilt, he spoke the words:

  “Ilia Kara, Ilia Kuhn.”

  The deafening electrical hissing drowned out all other sound, as black steel scales spread out instantly from the hilt, clamoring up his arms with blinding speed, spiraling around him and covering his entire body in a reflective, living, dark metal. His eyes flooded with a black f
ilm through which the beast could now see. The metallic skin had completely encased him within a few seconds, and he was now unbreakable.

  “Where's tower nine?” he yelled, surprising the guard at the gatehouse. But it was not his own voice he heard coming out from his mouth. The words he spoke, carried with them a depth of sound that tore the guard's eardrums, and the man reeled backwards in horror with blood dripping down from his lobes.

  “There,” the guard cried, pointing toward the towers,

  “The red flags.” There was nowhere for him to run and his heart pounded like a baby rabbit's at the sight of a cat. The scaled man with black eyes and a blade in his hand looked toward the sea where the guard had pointed.

  “Open the gate!” the monster screamed, ripping every bit of the guard's cochlea to shreds; shaking his brain against the inside of his skull. The man collapsed to the ground, dead, with his eyes swollen and blood trickling out from his nose and ears.

  The intruder found the weighted lever and opened the gate lock. Once inside the grounds, the glow of the lit pyres reflected off of his scales and alerted the watchers on the walls.

  Without a word, the eight watchmen fired arrows at the strange figure, running toward the towers along the bluff. The projectiles snapped against him and burst into splinters without him feeling anything at all. He saw the red flag hanging above the guard house door ahead, and he could hear men shouting and the chaos revving-up around him. When he reached the wooden door, he placed his armored right palm against it and imagined it ablaze. The wood smoked, sizzled, and burst inward; exploding away from him in a flash-spraying of red-hot coals and bright, yellow flames. Just as the boulder had done beside the cavern at the Void's edge.