Prince in the Tower

by Stephan Morse

  Wayward was a giant forest that climbed around a short peak. Tons of nearly untouched land sprawled into the distance roughly sixty miles and ended in a high ridge. I could barely make out a tower on the far side. It reminded me of an insanely tall lighthouse driving into the sky, making an already impressive peak even more daunting.

  The stir of my other mind made my heart rate jump. It was groggy and sluggish, but very much interested. I wanted to climb up there and shout a challenge to all the pathetic creatures roaming this island.

  Mine. It will be mine.

  One of the guards shouted. Choppers blades made it hard to know what he said for sure. That didn’t stop my two escorts from nudging me straight toward a roof access doorway. The entire time we shuffled I stared at the peak, wondering its purpose.

  Drugs made escape impossible to truly consider but I tried anyway. For example, these sector issued cuffs would only hurt a little when silver tore into my arms. I could heal. From there I could jump off. My thoughts were too mixed up though, what I really needed was a place to hide while recovering my memories.

  One guard opened the door. The other shoved me through. Our path didn’t lead to stairs, it went to an elevator. Guns nudged my back to keep us moving.

  I counted floors as we descended in the elevator. Red numbers went from twelve to six. Other numbers were on the control panel, basements markings.

  Elevator doors opened with an annoying chime. My two escorts nudged me out in silence. I obeyed because their guns were large and dangerous. Daniel would have known the models by heart, and probably be able to disassemble them on the fly while punching a guard in the face.

  Another memory flashed, Daniel had been sparring with Roy and his family. There was something dangerous about it though. Hungry, like he wanted to murder Roy. The Security Chief barely registered it, eager for combat and the thrill of a challenge. I’d been no better. All of us driven by our nature to play with death like fools.

  “Transfer of prisoner?” A voice almost exactly like Keeper, Kahina’s vampire sponsor, greeted us, his tone absent and a barely tangible thing. He must be an older vampire, at least three or four hundred years of age. Time did funny things to their heads.

  I looked around this new room. A series of double gated bars were between our end of the hallway and the other. Not an ounce of natural light peeked through.

  “Yes, sir,” an escort answered.

  “Excellent. We received his file and are ready to welcome him,” the older vampire said.

  He was a reedy fellow. No glasses or any accessories, extremely short hair and a carefully trimmed goatee. The hairs were almost white and his skin paler than normal. I’d seen albino humans once, but this felt closer to an albino vampire. I filed the rapid fire profile away.

  “Sedation?” albino asked the guards.

  “It’ll hold until end of orientation. After that...” I could almost feel one of the guards shrug behind me.

  “That’s fine. It’s long enough to explain the rules. After that problems tend to resolve themselves.” He had a humorous smile on his face. Beneath the joke was a hint of a nasty temperament.

  No one laughed at the thin fellow’s humor. Instead I slowly swung my head around, trying to gain some clarity and shake off the foggy feeling. If they thought the sedation would last a little bit longer maybe I could speed things up. My healing ability was near that of wolves. Claiming ownership of a place would make it faster. Giving me a cot, or a cell, anything, further accelerated the process.

  “This way, Mr. Fields.” The man had a clipboard in one hand, checking off items as he went.

  I slowly stepped after him. My guards didn’t join us. They stayed on the other side of the double doors.

  “Welcome to Atlas Island,” he spoke, but it wasn’t to me, not exactly. “Through here.”

  He had a keycard. It passed in front of locks and they clicked open with a warning beep. Each gate sealed shut behind us.

  “Our first stop will be the primary intake. We have two new members waiting for orientation which makes your timing fortuitous. It’s easier to do this in a group. Nothing like starting off with friends.” He turned and flashed that same nasty smile, checking off another box on his clipboard.

  I didn’t say anything, but walked through to where he was waving.

  “Over there, Mr. Fields.” The man pointed to an x on the ground. There were other people as well. Only two of the markings had people standing on top of them. They were trussed with manacles that connected arms and legs to heavy weights.

  My partners were Leo and a moron I’d never seen before. I couldn’t gauge how Leo was doing while focusing on moving forward. Both eyelids were heavy and arms barely reacted. My brief glance revealed a blank expression with no hint of awareness about me.

  Our third member seemed disturbed by the whole process. He didn’t have a standard wolf’s build or reediness associated with a vampire. Neither ear had a point on the tip. He was human.

  Atlas didn’t care. They were Western Sector owned, run, and sanctioned. This place took all offenders of interracial events. The other governments didn’t have a choice, and there was too much demand for a place like this.

  “Welcome to Atlas Island. In the next ten minutes you’ll be given a number, new clothes, and a fresh injection of sedatives. This will give you time to adapt to your new companions. It’s been my experience those imprisoned here as a result of violent crimes can be unstable without time to adapt. Later you will be given a bath and job to perform as part of your potential rehabilitation.” The clipboard carrying orientation specialist wasn’t even looking at us. He flipped through notes. It was the same action I’d seen Daniel do hundreds of times.

  There were two types of Western Sector employees. Those who found all their answers in the paperwork, and those who found all their answers in the field. Rarely did the twain meet except in cases like Daniel, and maybe Shaggy—Ann.

  “Each of you is here for different offenses.” He flipped through the papers again. “Scratch that, two of you share an offense. Congratulations. You must already be friends. Social bonds are healthy to rehabilitation efforts.” His vacant voice woke up and sounded almost excited. The orientation man smiled briefly, stretching his faint goatee.

  Leo’s eyes slowly slid up toward our speaker. No one said anything.

  “Regardless of the duration of your stay, all rules at Atlas are the same. We do this because of our sincere belief in rehabilitation.”

  He loved that word. I decided to hate it. The word would join “fantastic” in a special land reserved for detestable items. There, it would join kimchee and cat hair.

  “I will address the hope of escape first. Here is a fact; should you choose to escape Western Sector will use their trackers, then pursue with shoot to kill orders. There are no outstanding escapees at this time.” Our tour guide to all things Atlas paused and let that sink in for a moment.

  Leo didn’t move. The third prisoner barely blinked. I didn’t know how to react either and kept my head down.

  “Very well. Onward then. Here at Atlas we operate by a three strike system.” Now he was getting in our personal space while making eye contact. He leaned over slightly and peered upward into my eyes. I briefly considered tearing his head off. The thought made me smile which earned a return smile from the tour guide but the man turned and marched on.

  He stood in front of Leo.

  “Killing a fellow inmate is considered a strike.”

  Roy’s youngest shuddered. He couldn’t even focus directly on the pale haired man’s face. If Leo and his father were anything alike he would have been chomping at the bit to fight, drugs or not.

  “Failure to meet basic performance on your job is a strike,” he said while walking to the third man. “And, as always, failure to follow orders from a Caretaker or Warden is a strike. Isn’t that right, Mr. Simms? Back for a fourth visit? Why don’t you tell our new friends what happens on a third strike?”

&
nbsp; The man down at the end looked very unhappy. I could see him swallow, then shuffle his feet back a step.

  “Well, Mr. Simms?”

  “You go to the other side of the island,” he answered.

  “And is that bad?”

  He gulped again and nodded sharply.

  “Use your words, please. We endeavor not to be barbarians here. Being uncultured is a common ailment of our guests.”

  Mr. Simms’s shuffling feet begged to differ. Hell. I’d been here for thirty minutes and I already knew what was going to happen next. I’d done the same thing to other people, many times. Fighters in the ring who begged, people who owed debts but couldn’t pay, they occasionally got the same treatment.

  “Yes. The other side is bad,” Mr. Simms answered while looking down and closing his eyes.

  “In your last three visits you’ve successfully avoided being sent to the other side of the island. Congratulations. You’re clearly half a cultured human. Do you think you can avoid being cast over a fourth time?”

  I cleared my throat. This was building to the next step and boring. Humiliation as a demonstration of power only entertained the people in charge. “Get it over with.” My voice was sluggish.

  “Oh?”

  I could hear Mr. Simms whimper in relief as the pale haired man and his annoying goatee slid toward me. My eyes tracked polished shoes, tailored pants, and a stack of papers.

  “He’s screwed no matter how he answers. We get it. The other side is bad.” I bobbed a little while, trying to right my head and stare down at the man. I could feel myself struggling to shift but there was nothing to fuel it. If I’d had wings they’d be spread wide, making myself loom over the other figure. If I had fire this man would be half a cinder already.

  “I’m sure every moment over there is a fight for survival and people die.” There was probably still some barf on my face from the ride over. I ignored it.

  “Why yes, Mr. Fields I do believe you understand my point,” clipboard man said.

  “There’s more, right?” I asked.

  “Of course. What do you believe comes next, Mr. Fields?” The man had a half grin with puckered cheeks. He was enjoying himself. I wondered how many times in the past my face had the same smug expression. A dozen mushed memories compiled under a layer of drugs.

  I pushed on. “Now you find someone. Give them a task. They refuse and get a strike, or obey and you’ve established dominance.”

  I was annoyed with this entire place. Could it burn down? How much heat would it take? The walls felt dull and heavy. Trying to light this place on fire would be futile. There had to be something wrong with me if I could talk to a person and analyze how flammable our surroundings were, while drugs coursed through my system.

  “I’ll bet you use the same line each time. What is it? Oh, you seem like the type who gets off on people licking your books. Try it.” I glared at the reedy man. “Tell me to lick your boots.”

  I had to give the man points. He didn’t seem thrown off but wasn’t distant either. No, he was very much here, now, with us. His mannerisms were so much like Keeper’s that it was creepy. Was he an elder vampire? It felt like a possibility. The fluid grace as he slid around. The desire to read paper instead of digital tablets spoke of an old-fashioned comfort.

  “Excellent idea, Mr. Fields, since you so kindly offered,” he said and grinned, displaying two pointed teeth. “Lick. My. Boots.”

  Leo laughed, it sounded more like an addled man wheezing. Memories flashed by of the young man. When I’d first seen Leo he was ten or eleven and sent home from being in fights. His rage mirrored my own in so many ways.

  “No,” I said.

  My response didn’t surprise either one of us. The following backhand did. Its strength was such I went skidding across the room into a wall, where I thumped.

  I sat quickly and readied for a follow up strike that never came. My head swam and growls shook the ground slightly. The air in my immediate area grew heated. No additional attack came. In fact, the man giving us our orientation still had his clipboard tucked comfortably under one arm.

  “Strike one, Mr. Fields. Only two remaining. Now, back to your mark.”

  The blast to my face hurt. Stiffness set in and moving my jaw made me wince. It served me right for being aggressive while handicapped. I’d settle this once my head wasn’t full of cotton.

  I staggered back to my mark, dragging clanking metal chains the entire way. How much had he just sent across the room? Three hundred pounds of metal and muscle?

  He continued his speech. “Here at Atlas Island, problems solve themselves. They always do, given motivation and room.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked. I kept trying to lift my arm up to feel the side of my face. Repeated failures were marked by the repetitive ring of metal.

  Leo still attempted laughter. Wheezing in broken breaths.

  “I’m one of three Wardens. You may call me Warden Bennett.” He checked off a mark further down the page then moved his pencil back up the list. “The Caretakers and I keep this place as orderly as one can expect.”

  Leo’s drug addled gaze was focused on one of the Warden’s hands. I followed the line of sight over and tried not to smirk. The hand he’d hit me with was showing some signs of swelling. He kept it covered for the most part by the clipboard. Leo noticed, and now, so had I.

  “Nice title.”

  “It has its perks,” he admitted with a smile. None of us spoke and the Warden looked toward another guard at the door. “First, as promised, new clothes. Keep in mind we honor all deals around here, and when I speak I mean precisely what I say.”

  A man walked stiffly carrying three plastic wrapped bundles of cloth. This one didn’t make the same kind of eye contact. His suit was blue and zipped up with no tags, buttons, or anything loose to grab onto.

  The items were yanked out of their plastic and loaded into our arms. These pieces of fabric were flimsy. We were expected to hold them with our limited range of movement. Warden Bennett checked off another box and hummed at his clipboard.

  “Ah yes, the carrot side of our welcome speech.” Warden Bennett started to lose focus on being present. Apparently this part didn’t interest him like confrontation and smacking prisoners. “Atlas is a place for those who have disregarded society’s rules. Prove yourself capable of following the basic expectations and there are rewards. In laymen terms you’ll be allowed visitation rights, yard access, and possible television privileges. Therapy will be provided for those seeking reform and demonstrating ability to adhere to the stipulated rules.”

  “Phone calls?” Leo managed to get his head together enough to say something.

  Our third party member, Mr. Simms, shook his head sadly. His eyes remained downcast, focused on the floor.

  “Calls are limited to those who demonstrate a willingness to return to an orderly society. I find few people behave to the expected caliber.” Warden Bennett checked through his papers again.

  “Mr. Simms here performed quite well last time.” He smiled and let the papers slip back into place. “I doubt you’ll be so lucky, Mr. Fields. Men like you tend to get three strikes very quickly.”

  “Suits me,” I said. At least they wouldn’t sedate me on the other side.

  I’d have to play it cool and wait until the drugs cleared my system. There were a ton of messed up memories to sort. Then there was figuring out if returning home would get me in hotter water. Being in jail might be a good thing. The Order of Merlin couldn’t get a hold of me here. That’d buy everyone some more time.

  “How long am I here for?” I asked.

  “That’s a problem for another day, Mr. Fields. Today’s remaining tasks, as we’ve discussed, are getting you assigned a number, then to your cells. Ah. And fresh medical assistance to ensure a smooth transition.”

  Another guard came up with a strange looking device. The needle was obvious, but the small tube situated on the back made no sense.

  “You
r numbers come in two forms. One is an injection chip just under your skin. That was my brother’s idea. I’m more old-fashioned and prefer a simple name tag.” Warden Bennett walked to the third man and scooped something off a tray being held by another guard. “See here, Mr. Simms. We still had your old number available. Would you like it, for nostalgia?”

  Mr. Simms whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. The answer was clearly no, but Warden Bennett didn’t seem to care.

  “Welcome back, guest seven two three five one. I hope your stay is enjoyable.” Mr. Bennett used a joking tone to his voice, like he was saying something highly amusing, but no one else laughed.

  The image of beating Warden Bennett with the tray kept me amused while they stuck the needle in my arm. Imagining leaping into the sky with his body in one hand helped me survive the name tag being shoved in my hands. Dreaming of dropping him into the deepest ocean trench close by kept me sane as we walked down the hall to our cell.

  Each destructive thought that passed through my muddled brain assisted me in drowning the cries of other inmates shouting at us. Fresh “medical assistance” played a part. Still, entire floors of people jeered. Wolves howled while humans rattled their bars. Other figures were sleeping in a clump of rooms we passed while descending. Verbal insults irked me but were minor.

  Three men with guns surrounded us as we walked. One took point with Warden Bennett. The other two were behind with hands on their weapons. This place was Western Sector run, so they probably had the training needed to end our lives quickly. The thought made me shudder. None of my abilities made me bullet proof in this human form. The wound on my leg from Daniel reminded me just how bad things could get.

  Hell. Suddenly a new thought flashed through my head. If this place was Sector run, there might be other Hunters here. I knew that bit of information, too. Hunters were normal people. Hunter Born like Daniel came into the world with a drive to fight monsters. They were given power, instinct, and ability that made them almost inhuman.