by Elle Park
As soon as we enter, I notice a recurring theme that my new world is evidently fond of. The size of the room is not restricted by the physical structure of the cube's deceiving exterior—rather, it is exponentially more spacious than an outsider would presume or expect. Even the initial transparency of the walls have been replaced by a bony white—though, I do get the feeling that those on the other side can still see in.
Leon is holding a tablet identical to Lacey's, and with every tap of his finger, a new addition is made to the room. First, the same padding from the testing boards blooms across every inch of the walls, ceiling and even the floor beneath our feet. Bullseye targets—definitely not made of paper—appear on my far right, and by the adjacent wall, incredibly life-like dummies of all shapes and sizes ascend from underground, each sporting an obvious red X on the spot a person's heart should be.
"Your gun is literally a part of you now, so the sooner you get used to it, the better," Leon says in his usual no-nonsense tone. "We'll begin with stationary targets, and once your aim is considered acceptable, we'll incorporate moving targets. That's all you need to concern yourself with for now."
"Don't worry, Kiki," Nolan grins, patting my head, "I'll teach you all you need to know."
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT TURNS OUT, I don't need Nolan's help.
If anything, his constant hovering and non-stop commentary only distracts me and slows me down—a fact that, much to Leon's frustration, he refuses to acknowledge. Regardless, it doesn't take as long as I thought it would for me to be able to hit specific targets. I've even grown comfortable shooting with one hand—though, using said hand as my holster is something I've yet to accept as anything but completely surreal.
And just because we've stopped training as a class does not mean our physical exercises have stopped, too. The only difference now is that I'm competing against no one but myself, and instead of the legitimate gym equipment that we so regularly used, I'm running drills in different parts of different cities—except, of course, the city is inside my cube.
To accommodate the size of my new playground, the room has expanded to the point where I find myself periodically forgetting that I'm not actually outside. I've realized early on that these people do not do things halfway, and yet the lengths they go to never fail to baffle me.
A clear, blue sky has replaced the ceiling above us, and there's even a slight breeze that's so fresh and distinct, no fan or air conditioner could possibly imitate it. Today, I'm in some sort of dingy park. Save for some iron railings and a strip of brick buildings over on the next block—yes, that's how vast the space is—almost everything here is made of either stone or concrete, and with the many stairs, arches, walkways and structures, it's probably something akin to a skater's wet dream.
What I wouldn't give for this to all be a dream, period.
Unfortunately, the burning sensation in my palms and knees confirms that this is indeed reality.
"Kaia! Kaia, are you okay?" Nolan shouts in distress, running over to me like a scared parent. In a matter of seconds, he's at my side, scanning for the scrapes that have already healed. "Tell me what you need, sweets. A nurse? Some ice? Some ice-cream?"
Accustomed to his flair for dramatics, I repress the urge to roll my eyes. "I'm fine," I say, swatting away his hands currently gripping my own.
"You hesitated." Leon is leaning against one of the railings off at the side, but his voice rings loud and clear, as if he's standing a few feet away from us and not a few meters. "Do not let something as trivial as fear get in your way. A single, fleeting distraction can result in anything from a botched job to your botched body. Now, do it again, and this time, don't stay on the ground."
These drills are the current bane of my existence, forcing me to run, climb, jump and roll over structures that were not built for people to run, climb, jump and roll over. If I so much as dare to pause and catch my breath, my relentless trainer makes me do his carefully planned circuit all over again, right back from the beginning.
Finally completing the exercise to Leon's satisfaction, I let myself collapse on the flat roof of the building I just spent the last few minutes sprinting up. My ribs are threatening to puncture my lungs, and as I raise a hand to wipe the sweat out of my eyes, I have to resist the urge to puke when I notice its ugly state. Although my ripped and grated nails have healed to perfection, the blood is still stained on my skin in drying streaks and patches. I already know the skin beneath my clothes looks something similar—it's what I've been seeing for the past few weeks, after all.
Like always, my break doesn't last more than a few desperate, painful wheezes.
"Now that you're warmed up, we'll begin today's combat session," Leon says, getting straight to the point. "Come on. Up. You know what to—"
"Oh, god, that was brutal," I hear Nolan say from somewhere above me. I can't be bothered to open my eyes though, let alone move from my murder-victim position. "Don't ever make me do that again, Leo."
"You took the elevator."
"Yeah, and it was about as traumatic as the time I witnessed Old Man Jenkins trying to keep his five strands of hair from flying off his scalp in the middle of a heavily air-conditioned room," he replies, audibly shuddering. "Seriously, though, was that really necessary, Lee? You couldn't install an elevator that's not something nightmares are made of? It creaked every time I so much as blinked, I tell you. Thought I was going to fall to my death right then and there—DOA inside a cube. Do you know how many tales could be spun from that little tidbit? Do you, Lenny? Do you? No one would remember me as the great, almighty Nolan Drake. And who is Nolan Drake if not great and almighty?" He shakes his head wistfully. "Just a pretty face."
Does he ever get tired of talking?
It's not like I would actually wish for him to die—not that he even would—but couldn't the elevator at least get stuck or something?
Suppressing a groan—because even that would probably hurt right now—I straighten my wobbling knees until I come to a stand on both feet. Nolan is making a weak attempt of glaring at Leon—the same guy who's less likely to flinch than an actual stone statue—but the second he remembers I'm still here and trying not to faint, he's back to invading my personal space.
"Oh, no. Look what you've done to her." He's using his fingers to stretch my eyes wide open, but I'm too drained to do anything about it, especially since I'll need all the energy I can conjure if I want to continue my training—not that that's what I really want, but what I want never seems to matter here. "She needs blood, stat. Here, Sweets, drink this—and remember, if you see a bright tunnel of light, don't go towards it. I repeat, don't go—"
"Just give her the damn blood, Drake."
Before Nolan can reply—because we all know it won't be a one word answer—I grab the flask from his outstretched hand, downing the contents in one go. "There," I say, letting him take back the matte container. "Happy?" Of course, I make it sound like I drank it for him—which, I partly did—but I genuinely am starting to feel a lot better.
"Why? What if I'm not?" He pouts. "What are you going to do to make me feel better?"
"Nothing." Realizing Leon is already gone and probably waiting to torture me further, I begin walking toward the door. My hand is already on the knob when a thought occurs to me. "Actually, some time alone will probably do you good. You can stay here and sort out your feelings while I finish my training—or, better yet, go home and keep Henry company." Peeking over my shoulder, I feel a wave of defeat when I spot him trailing behind me like the lost puppy he loves pretending to be. I even head for the stairs in hopes that he'll be his usual, lazy self and take the elevator—creaky death trap or not—but when he falls into step beside me, it's pure desperation that has me pulling out the guilt card. "I mean, shouldn't you be worried about leaving him by himself in that huge house all day? He's ten, for god's sake."
He snorts. "Yeah, but that's like forty in Henry-years,
" he says, shaking his head. "And besides, I never leave him alone for more than an hour—he's with my mom, duh. They're probably knitting or drinking tea or doing other old-people stuff right about now."
I leave it at that, knowing I'll just be wasting my own breath—which I still don't have much of—by trying to get him to give me some space to breathe—which I'd really like to do.
Going down the stairs doesn't take nearly as much time as it did going up, and in what feels like no time at all, I'm forced to trade one hell for another.
Ever since we began using the cubes, my combat sessions have consisted of Leon teaching me the ways of fighting a vorak—during which, he is the supposed vorak.
Whether he thinks similarly to Lacey or he's just following orders, I don't know, but they're definitely promoting the same line of logic. It's like when she said we shouldn't be allowed to use weapons until we learned how to survive without them. Well, our weapons are the only way to kill a vorak, so, naturally, we have to be trained to fight a vorak before we can be trained to kill one.
Another thing I've learned is that surprises are never good—which is why I'm not sure how to feel when I realize Leon isn't standing where I expected him to be, but rather by the open doorway of the cube.
"There's been a change of plans," he explains, not caring to elaborate. He does, however, motion for us to hurry up and exit.
Apparently, we're not the only ones to have put the breaks on our session. In fact, we're part of the last few to make it out—all thanks to Nolan and his running mouth, no doubt—and it serves as little consolation to see that most of the recruits, if not all, appear as confused as I feel.
Then, as if in answer to our silent questions, the cubes begin sliding down and out of sight, making the room seem all the more vast. Our trainers herd us all toward the left wall just as we spot Lacey through the now unobstructed view. She stops a short distance away from us, acknowledging us with a mere glance before tapping the screen of her tablet.
At the heart of the room and along the stretch of the back wall, the floor begins breaking away, almost melting into immeasurable depths. Then, rising through the geometric pits of hell, is a massive, clear dome and a set of steel bleachers.
"Take a seat," Lacey instructs. Our butts have barely touched the cold surface when she speaks again. "Drake, in the pit."
Nolan loudly exhales, uncoiling from his relaxed position with slow, deliberate movements, clearly enjoying the attention. He goes on to stretch each of his limbs, cracking his neck, back and knuckles before finally moving from his rooted position, chest inflated like a helium balloon. There's a smug tilt to his chin as he prances down the steps, patting nearby heads and shoulders with a condescending touch.
"Learn from the best and all that, huh, Lace?" Winking, he bumps her shoulder on the way to the dome.
"Whatever makes you feel better, pretty boy.”
He hums. "I am quite pretty, if I do say so myself."
Reaching the rounded vault, he flattens his palm against the transparent surface until, like the surrounding air of a house on fire, a section of the solid material begins breathing, almost throbbing in minuscule waves. Then, like a ghost gliding through walls, he moves past the barrier as though it isn’t there at all.
As soon as he steps inside, the spontaneous door—if it can even be called that—instantly stills and solidifies. Two wide screens slide down from the ceiling of the room, hanging a short distance behind the top of the dome. One of them is currently zoomed in on his smirking face, and the previously shy audience is now watching with anticipation, eyes drinking in his every breath. Excluded from this fascinated group, is the string of trainers lined up against the wall to our left. They, as usual, do not look fazed in the slightest.
"Today, please," he shouts, though it's absolutely unnecessary. His voice travels loud and clear, prompting more than a few heads to turn in search of the invisible speakers I know we won't find.
Long, drawn-out beeps begin piercing the air, the sound reminiscent of a garbage truck backing out of a driveway. Several meters away from him, what almost looks like a trap door reveals itself, a tall cage inching its way up through the square frame. Once the steel box comes to a stop, the front barrier slides open and the shrill alarm falls silent. Filling the second screen is the now free prisoner.
A young girl with olive skin and thick, braided hair emerges with cautious steps, her chubby torso hunched with tension. As soon as she's fully out of the cage, it shoots back into the ground like a strained rubber band, the floor sealing flawlessly at its departure.
The girl appears cautious, slowly taking in the near-empty dome. After setting her sights on Nolan, she tilts her head just the slightest bit, and it's as if she's seeing both nothing and everything.
"Oh, come on," someone scoffs, and I realize it's the jock from the cafeteria fight—Dean, I think his name was. "You're making him fight a kid? A girl?"
"Watch and learn, boy," is all Lacey says.
We direct our attention back to the dome just as Nolan's fists clench almost imperceptibly. The zoomed in screen allows us to see a black, tightly pebbled fabric bloom across his skin like a deadly rash. It spreads and stretches until it becomes one with his hands, eliciting a content sigh from its owner and curious murmurs from the crowd.
That must be his weapon.
I don't know why I never considered the possibility of him being a tracker. I mean, he clearly knows his way around here, and he did tell me that he was a daemon, but I guess I just dismissed the idea of him doing anything besides eating copious amounts of food and smothering the people in his life.
"Here, kitty, kitty," he coos, waving the girl over with waggling fingers. At his insistent clucking, she merely straightens her head, blinking lazily. "Come on," he prods, "aren't you hungry?" Apparently tired of waiting, he changes tactics. In one swift blur, he swipes at his own neck, a bloody rash instantly abrading the skin between his jaw and shoulder. "That's more like it."
Glancing at the screen, a chill runs down my spine when I notice her transformed features, the feeling so unsettling that it might as well be a family of tarantulas crawling beneath my shirt. In just a matter of seconds, the little girl reveals herself to be the monster we would never expect her to be. Just like my attacker from that day in the alley, the muddy pigment in her eyes have been swallowed whole, both sockets filled with a slimy black.
"Don't be fooled by appearances," Lacey says casually, her own eyes trained on the screen. "No matter how young or innocent or harmless they may look, it's never their true form. They're able to survive by blending into our world, morphing into the shape of those they devour, and mimicking the person that they were before they died," she warns, turning toward us. "These are untamed beasts, creatures of death. They don't have conscious thoughts or feelings. They're empty vessels, driven only by hunger. Bloodlust. The second you forget that, you're as good as dead."
Raging with her dark, beastly traits, a gritty hiss scrapes through jagged teeth as she snaps her jaws with violent ferocity. Her speed is nowhere near that of a maevon, but she is very obviously faster than the average human. There is a frantic wildness to the movement of her limbs, and as much as I want to turn away, I can't help but be captivated by the disturbing sight. It almost looks like someone with cramping muscles is trying to swim their way out of the middle of the ocean, arms and legs swinging in a feral, disjointed rhythm.
A flurry of shocked gasps travels through the bleachers, everyone entranced with the scene unfolding in front of them. The screens are constantly switching angles, zooming in and out, broadcasting the death-match with ease. Although the girl has speed, she lacks precision. Her movements are wild and jagged, whereas Nolan times his attacks perfectly—like a fight between a trained killer and a drunk with a broken bottle.
From a distance, it looks like Nolan is slapping the girl in quick succession. Left, right, left, right. But on the screen, I can see that his hands don't merely skim her face,
but rather move with it, gloved fingertips gripping her tan flesh, digging into cheekbones and pushing her head until her veiny neck nearly snaps.
The girl's clothes are torn, and her skin looks like grated meat, raw and gushing with blood. She doesn't seem to realize it, though. Her fat, black tongue is stretched over the spikes of her teeth, wagging like the tail of a dog about to feast. Hungry and persistent, she continues to attack him, only to be blocked each time. Nolan doesn't even appear out of breath. If anything, he seems annoyed, as if the monster he's dealing with is nothing but a persistent fly.
"Today, please," Lacey says, repeating his words from earlier.
"Fine. I was getting bored, anyway," he replies, easily dodging another frantic set of strikes.
This time, he aims for the girl's chest, curled digits piercing through as easily as a bullet. He stays like that for a moment, savoring the sight of the writhing creature before finally yanking free. In his unclenched fist is what looks like a black, glassy golf ball, one that's adorned with several cracks and fractures, even missing a few large, jagged pieces.
It’s like the small object is in sync with its previous shell.
Both are deteriorating.
The orb is crumbling into thin air, eating away at itself like a deathly, flesh-eating disease, while the girl litters flecks of charcoal residue. Just like the scene from the alley, her body is being cremated from within. Except, this time, there's no visible fire. The volatile blue flames that I have yet to extinguish from my mind are clearly not the cause of her rapidly decaying state. There aren't even any lingering coils of smoke—nothing but small mounds of ash that disappear when Lacey activates a draining system, the charred remains being sucked in one powerful gulp.
Nolan saunters out, whistling.
"Was that really necessary?" Lacey says, her brow raised as she glances at the gash on his neck.