Escape from Harrizel

by C. G. Coppola

  Everyone rushes up and selects one to practice with. The Chaisles seem to be the popular choice so I select the Fiminer and run my fingers against its cool, silvery metal. It’s lighter than I expected—maybe only a pound or two. Lining it up to my eye, I find an imaginary target out in the emptiness in front of me and pretend to shoot.

  “Taking many prisoners?”

  “Oh,” I drop the Fiminer at the sound of his voice. “Hey Walker.”

  “It’s Heath, actually.”

  “Right, right,” I shake my head, forgetful everyone’s only part of who they were. I wonder what Reid’s first name is?

  “It’s alright. I like Walker too,” he shrugs. “It’s just about getting used to it, right?”

  “I guess,” I shrug and then, after a moment, “so where you heading back to?”

  “Austin,” he pauses and then, with real sincerity says, “you should come and visit sometime. You know, when you’re settled and want a change of scenery.”

  “That sounds nice…” I choose my words carefully, “and I honestly would if I could.”

  He’s waiting for more but there’s nothing left to say. His golden eyes light up after a second, realization striking him.

  “You?” he turns to me, angry. “You should be able to return more than anyone. The way you handled the crowd... you gave us our memories back and you can’t go home?”

  Shaking my head, I debate asking him to keep his voice down. No one else needs to know I can’t go home. No one needs to know I’m going to stay and fight alongside Sampson and Clarence in their war. That’s my business. I’m about to ask Walker to lower his voice when I feel someone watching me. I turn, scanning the crowded lot as a pair of sharp, powerful eyes lock onto mine.

  I’m frozen.

  Reid’s form stands rigid. He’s watching with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he’s restricting himself from heading over.

  Walker slips his hand in mine, offering a gentle squeeze. “I’m really sorry, Fallon.”

  Reid takes a small step but stops himself.

  “It’s not your fault,” I focus on Walker. “You know, it happened this way. Maybe for a reason. But I’m happy you can go back… you know… if we can pull this whole thing off.”

  “And why can’t we?” he drops my hand and motions around. “You guys seem to know what you’re doing.

  “Direction’s one thing. Willingness is totally different.”

  “And what? We’re not willing?” He lifts his arms as if to demonstrate how many people are out here. It does seem though, now after taking a second look, that more people have joined the groups. The entire population’s still not here, but we may have grown from two hundred to three or so by now.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The others just need time to adjust. They’ll be out here in a day or two. Once they realize how mad they are…” Walker heads for the mound of Chaisles and selects one. I follow along, feeling Reid’s scorching stare with each step. I want to glance at him but that wouldn’t do any good. At least Walker’s focusing on the inevitable battle ahead. He holds the Chaisle up, aiming at an invisible target and mutters to himself. “I can’t wait to use this on those bastards. Can’t wait.”

  He shoots and the flying bullet of blades spins outward for about twenty feet, then falls to the rocky ground below. I watch it disappear into the cracked gray-blue, imagining the enemy falling to the ground instead. Keeping his aim with the Chaisle, he states rather than asks. “When your cheek was cut—that was the night you found them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You found them by yourself?”

  I exhale. “Yeah.”

  “Christ Almighty, Fallon,” he lowers his Chaisle. Looking at me more intently than I’d anticipated, Walker speaks in tender, curious words. “What happened out there?”

  I take a breath, ready to dive back into the horrors of that first night when Sampson’s voice projects over the entire lot. “Very good. Let’s have the groups rotate then. Remember, we will be out here training everyday so if you want extra practice, you will have it!”

  Thankful for the distraction, I return a smile to Walker and head for the Water Pole just as Pratt joins my side. The rest of our group migrates in the same direction as those with Clarence move to Vix and those with Vix, come around to Sampson. I try not to look for Reid, to locate him amongst the crowd but I’m already searching.

  “You okay?” Pratt asks.

  “Yeah…” I lie without caring to convince her. “I’m fine.”

  “Is it about Walker?” she tries but I shake my head. “Reid?”

  The sound of his name stings me, my legs involuntarily stopping. The hesitation startles even me as Pratt’s mouth dips to an unsettling frown. She lowers her head, speaking in soft words. “I’m sorry.”

  Why is everyone apologizing to me today?

  I shrug, walking on. Can’t we go back to weapons training? To prepping for the return of the Vermix? We’re almost to the Water Pole, Clarence looking on the large group as we approach in one slow-moving herd.

  “I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” Pratt tries again, speaking lowly so that only the two of us can hear. “But he’s been watching you all day.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  A couple more steps.

  “…Means something.”

  “Saying his goodbyes, I’m sure. Listen, Pratt, I’m sorry,” I step away from her, toward the pile of weapons in front of us, “but I can’t talk about this anymore.”

  I turn before getting a response, heading for the front, for Clarence. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not a single person. Except maybe Granny Ruth. Another punch to my gut and I’m out of breath again. The only person who could possibly help, can’t. She’s been taken from me brutally, by an unknown monster, one I will end if I ever get the chance.

  I shake the image away, shake the past away. The future is all I have left and besides, I don’t need help. I just need to get my hands on those weapons. I need to learn how to use them, practice using them. It’s pointless filling my head with anything other than that.

  The next few hours pass the same way, each group rotating between Vix, Clarence and Sampson and learning different types of weapons, both Dofinike and human. On our last rotation around, Clarence draws our attention to the front with a boomingly strong voice.

  “Alright, you’ll really want to pay attention. This,” he holds up a triangular blue and orange object with a long, narrow pipe extending from one point, “is a Traxpire. This is the Vermixes ultimate weapon. This is only a model and unfortunately, we don’t have any to practice on…”

  “So why show us?” Werzo’s voice cuts through the crowd.

  I shoot him a look, along with a few others before we redirect our attention back to Clarence.

  “I’m showing you,” it sounds like he’s holding back a snide remark of his own, “to make you aware. This,” again, he holds it high so we can all see, “will cause fatal damage if it doesn’t kill you instantly. It is the prize defense of the Vermix and yes,” he answers our puzzling looks, “you should be afraid.”

  “What does it do?” someone asks.

  “It shoots a tiny device into your target and after three,” he shifts, considering, “maybe four seconds, unleashes a set of chemicals that create an explosion, disabling that portion—or limb—of your victim. Aim for the head or heart—it’s a fatal shot.”

  “But the Chaisle…” a girl starts.

  “…Will wound, possibly slow, but this,” he makes sure everyone can see, “is the real deal. You do not want to be on the receiving end.”

  “Will it be their main defense?” I ask.

  “Not necessarily. They’ll only reach for it when absolutely desperate. They’ll want to reserve ammo so Chaisles and Fiminers are your best bet. Now,” Clarence begins pacing, “if truly threatened, Vermix will reach for the Traxpire or if they have them, their
hand whips—whips so sharp they can cut through bone.”

  A ubiquitous inhale fills the air.

  “I’m not telling you this to frighten you… but you need to know what you’re up against. Again, the latter two are not likely, but still possible. You need to be as prepared as you can.”

  “And we can’t practice?” Werzo reaches for the Traxpire again.

  “You cannot,” Clarence keeps it high up and away, “but get a good look. If you see one, run. That is not advice.”

  After Clarence presents a few more smaller, close combat items, everyone retreats to individual practice at his request, most returning for the Chaisles, Fiminers and other various weapons. When the sky fades to pink and people have slowed, finding interest in socializing rather than training, Sampson addresses the entire lot again, projecting his voice over all others.

  “This has been a productive first day. I thank you all for your help and hard work. Let’s rest for the remainder of the evening and we’ll resume training again tomorrow. Will the following persons please stay behind: Francie Fallon, Andrew Reid, Charles Tucker, Matthew Able, Roy Harrison, James Jace, Asen Yahola, Steven Kelly, Kurt Clark, Brandon Griffin and June Pratt.” Sampson ends with a slight bow and a gracious, “Thank you.”

  Andrew Reid. His name is Andrew.

  I ignore the pounding in my chest and cross the distance to Sampson, everyone else walking past me, back toward the Castle. They’re heading in for the night, to relax, to mingle, to have time to themselves—if they so desire. But I’m still here, when all I want to do is sleep. Sleep away the past. Sleep away the future. And most certainly, sleep away the present. Everyone keeps telling me what I deserve. Shouldn’t it be peace?

  We all at arrive roughly the same time, Clarence and Vix making their way over as well. Reid is just feet away. With arms tightly folded over his chest, he cocks his head back, focusing on Sampson. We both stand rigidly still, like a block of solid space separates us, one we’re both fully conscious of. It’s like that every time though, when he’s around. Space is broken into a matter of hard distance that shouldn’t exist. And right now, neither of us is willing—or able—to break it.

  “Alright,” Sampson looks around. “Very productive day indeed. There’s a lot we must go over and I believe everyone here is a vital asset to strategizing the next phase so…” he glances from face to face, “with that said, why don’t we all head upstairs for a chat?”

  The group nods as Sampson, Clarence and Vix lead us to Beshib’s office on the top floor. The room’s enormous, about half the size of the Auditorium and sits enclosed in rust colored marble. A great, round black table sits in the immediate center of the room and I can’t help but think of Arthur and his knights.

  “Please,” Sampson motions to the table as we all begin to sit.

  The chairs, made from the same marble of the table, are uncomfortable and cold. We place ourselves evenly around the table, leaving a few vacant chairs between us.

  “Where’s Jothkore?” Pratt asks.

  “Attending some personal errands for me, but I shall fill him in when he returns,” Sampson looks around the table. “Alright, today’s been very productive indeed. But I was only viewing from the instructor’s perspective and at times, this can be flawed. You were amongst nearly three-fourths of the population. How’d they feel throughout the day?”

  No one says anything but instead, looks around the room. Was anybody paying attention to the others? Or was today a selfish one, used to reflect only what we wanted to think about? The silence goes on a little too long so I summon the moment with Walker and his statement.

  I can’t wait to use this on those bastards. Can’t wait.

  “Angry,” I finally admit. “Some of them were angry.” At this, I glance to Reid who’s already watching me. It causes a violent stir in my gut so I look back to Sampson.

  “Good,” he nods. “That’s good.”

  “Well of course they’re angry,” Clark gripes, “why wouldn’t they be? I am!”

  “You’re always angry,” I snap, and, fueled by everything rushing inside me, go on, “but I’m sure waking up to your past can’t help.”

  Clark’s brows sink low as he crosses his arms in retaliation. “At least I have a life to go back to.”

  At this, the room sits silent. I’ve been exposed as a five percent. That’s fine. It’s not like everyone here wouldn’t find out at some point anyway. Inhaling deeply, Reid’s bewildered stare barrels into me like a laser, zapping all the breath I have from my gut. I force a look at him and when I do, my heart nearly breaks. His face, so startled, so unsure and confused looks as pained as I feel. Did he not hear through the grape-vine like Clark?

  “Well I don’t either,” Pratt’s strong voice breaks the hard silence.

  “Me neither,” Jace admits.

  “Or me,” Tucker adjusts after a moment, everyone then looking to him. “So there are a few of us a little angry too. But maybe we can leave ourselves out of this and focus on the plan now?”

  “Right,” Clarence agrees, leaning forward and threading his fingers together on the table. “So if anger’s the common theme here, does it translate well? Are we seeing an army form? Or do they need further guidance?”

  “They seem thoroughly motivated,” Reid chimes in, speaking directly to Clarence, “they just need practice. But once Beshib returns, they’ll be ready.”

  “What about combat?” Vix suggests. “Hand to hand? If Beshib’s bringing back any elder members of the Vermix, they’ll fight in the ancient ways. They’ll disarm half the humans before they’re even able to fire a single shot.”

  “We can’t teach them that kind of combat in a few days time,” Clarence laughs, “it takes years of training—and that’s for a Dofinike.”

  “I thought someone of your habits didn’t distinguish much between humans and Dofinikes?” Vix poses with an accusing undertone I don’t miss. The question hangs in the air, Clarence shaking his head and turning to Sampson instead.

  “It doesn’t make sense. They should be trained on weapons alone. You know, as I do, once they’re at combat stage, the fight is already won.”

  Sampson nods, considering his statement. I risk a glance to Reid who’s waiting for a reply like the rest of us. Instinctively, his eyes fly to me, the fire searing me again. A large lump rolls down his throat but he breaks the connection, looking back to Sampson.

  “We can set some time aside,” Sampson decides, “a few hours at the most, for combat training. The rest of the time will be spent learning weapons and practicing.”

  “Has anyone requested to see the mutations?” I ask.

  “Yes, actually,” Sampson nods, “a few people have come to me, asking to be taken there.”

  “So outings will have to be arranged at some point,” I exhale, “depending on how many want to go?”

  “Enough to be broken into groups, I’d say. We can take a few in the morning, a few at midday.”

  “Good,” I nod. “It’ll give them more fuel. Make them want it more.”

  “They’re already pretty fueled,” Reid replies without meeting my eye. Something in his voice stresses another meaning, “And ready to fight now.”

  “And that’s good,” Sampson continues, “because Blovid said they may be returning early…” he glances to Clarence for confirmation, “…is that correct?”

  Hanging his head slightly, Clarence nods in agreement, “Yes… we’re not sure when.”

  “Wait,” I sit forward, a bolt of fear striking my brain. How have I not thought of this sooner? “But if you’re both communicating with Blovid… what’s keeping Tetlak or Jeb from contacting Beshib?”

  “Pillypees,” Sampson answers, “the sleep serum. As long as we continue giving them regular doses, they won’t be able to notify Beshib.”

  “So who’s giving them doses?” I ask.

  “Rogues are taking shifts,” Tucker clears his throat. “Should be Niles’ turn now.”

  “M
y question,” Clark speaks up, “although no one asked me, is when are we returning home? If all goes well, when are those of us who are able, going to be taken back?”

  Clarence and Sampson exchange glances with one another, a subtle gesture Clark doesn’t miss.

  “Look,” he scoffs, “I’m sorry if that sounds bad but I want to know. I have a right to know. So do the others,” he gestures to them, hoping they’ll back his argument. But they remain quiet, motionless, simply watching. Sitting back comfortably, Clark begins to barter unnecessarily, “If we fight for you, in your war, then we should…”

  “For your freedom,” I add under my breath.

  He flies forward with a snarl. “No one’s talking to you, Francie.”

  “Hey,” Able pitches in. “Back off. You’re lucky you’re even here.”

  “Yeah,” Jace laughs, “and you’re wearing on my nerves so it’d be wise…” he cracks his knuckles loudly.

  Harrison chortles just as Clark’s face turns a bright red, “Look at him—scared stiff. What do you say we throw old Chief in?” he jerks his head to the silent Indian, “Just for shits and giggles?”

  “Heh,” Kelly mumbles to himself, unimpressed as he goes on, picking his nails.

  “Guys,” Tucker commands the room. “Come on, focus.”

  “You can’t side with this guy,” Jace motions to Clark, suppressing a pathetic laugh. “He’s a mouse. And he’s being a dick to Fallon.”

  It warms my heart to know the Rogues would stand behind me like this—most at least, except for Reid, who’s been sitting quietly, watching everything without any comment.

  Unable to help myself, I turn to Clark. “And it’s Fallon to you, Kurt.”

  “That’s right,” he hisses in response, finding his strength again, if only to tear me down a little. “I am Kurt. I’m Kurt Clark. Born 1984 in Salt Lake City, Utah. Abducted 2008 on my way home from the campus library,” he fumes at Clarence, “and taken here, to a prison—a waste of my time and talent for two years. I’m sorry, but I want to know…”