The Keep (A Renegades story Book 1)

by Marilize Loxton

  The pale gate attendant scoured Jamie’s vehicle, and narrowed her glance. On her navy overcoat, she’d flaunted the ECD emblem, neatly sowed on.

  ‘Your identification please, Miss.’ she said, refusing to believe that Jamie was a licensed driver.

  ‘Uh–you see–the thing is–’Jamie stuttered, swallowing deeply.

  ‘YOUR IDENTIFICATION PLEASE, MISS!’

  Jamie’s foot had suddenly felt uncontrollably heavy. It lowered onto the gas, and the vehicle sped forward. It raced through the security bar and onto the main road of the Pobre district.

  ‘Hey! Come back here!’ The guard cried from a splintered gate.

  Jamie’s hands were sweaty, and struggled to grip the steering wheel. The hood of the car had swung side to side, almost driving off the road and into an electricity box. She swivelled away just in time.

  Jamie glanced in the side-mirror, seeing trails of flashing ECD rovers following her. Their sirens were all turned on, howling in the wind. Thin metal bullets had pinned onto the back of Sally’s car, shattering almost every piece of glass in sight.

  Jamie freaked out, and panicked.

  She had let go of the gas, and trailed off the main road. The car sped towards an old and abandoned building, downhill. Jamie had crashed hood first into a wall, sparks flying, and fought to maintain her consciousness.

  The very last face she’d seen before blacking out was that of Dallas Romero, the infamous head of the ECD. He had pulled her out through the broken windscreen, and laid her down on the clammy ground.

  ‘Cuff her.’ Dallas said, as she drifted away.

  Jamie had opened her eyes to the dreadful sight of a small room (the box) at the Keep. It was a dark and musky containment, and a slight hint of sourness soaked within its air. She was all alone, and it was all her fault.

  Never had she wanted anything to do with gunfire again.

  ‘We’re done for!’ Sam cried as she dived for the floor. A lethal bullet went soaring past her face and she covered her head in fear.

  ‘Not quite!’ Luna said. She emerged from underneath the seats, holding a charcoal black box. Inside, it had a rifle, just as those that had been shooting at them.

  ‘They’ve messed with the wrong group of prisoners!’

  Luna held the rifle tight against her body, kicked open the backdoor of the van, and fired aimlessly.

  Bullets had been flying everywhere.

  By a sheer shot of luck, she hit the engine of an incoming rover, and it started to slow down.

  ‘Got’em!’ Luna cheered.

  A massive fire broke loose as the hood had started to flame, and the two guards evacuated the vehicle in terror. They ducked behind a sand dune, hugging their bodies as the rover exploded. It was a vigorous shower of all colours red and orange.

  Luna heaved. She was all too proud of herself.

  ‘Go Shawn, go!’ Melanie cried. Her hand was wrapped around Luke’s wrist, denying all blood pulsing to his hand. She’d sat on her knees behind a battered leather seat.

  Two more shots hit the back of the van.

  ‘Don’t you think I’m trying?’ Shawn gritted his teeth, and thought hard. There was only one way to increase their speed: Driving downhill. ‘The van has no strength left!’

  It was now or never.

  Shawn shifted gears, and gave a sharp turn towards the deep waterfall of sand leading downhill.

  ‘Hold on!’ He cried, internally praying that they wouldn’t die.

  The van’s wheel joints had overflowed with red, coarse sand, and were struck useless to the pedals. No matter how hard Shawn had pressed the breaks, the van wouldn’t stop.

  They were charging downhill at increased speed, carried ahead by the collapsing dune itself. Wave after wave, the scarlet sea of sand shined within whatever rays of the sun had remained. Those in the van were complete sitting ducks; their pleading yelps carried far off into the desert.

  The brakes creaked, proven futile, and so was the steering wheel.

  The deafening sound of an agonising crash brought silence to all who were listening, followed by the rotten smell of aged metal burning.

  The pleading yelps had stopped.

  Soft footsteps scurried in the sand as the survivors ran for the hills. Bruised and battered, without looking back, they had fled from the incoming sound of rovers. Not only had they lost their sole mode of transportation, but all hope of a clear getaway.

  * * *

  Jack Crowe wrathfully bent over by the burning wreckage. His fuming eyes had caught no sign life, nor any of nearby survivors. Few hesitant guards scavenged through the parched remains of the van.

  ‘We’ve got a body, sir!’ They called, and backup drew near. Together, they heaved a charcoaled lump of flesh from the smoky, leather seats.

  It was unrecognisable.

  ‘Who is it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘We can’t tell, sir.’

  ‘Not even the gender?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Then cover it up.’ Jack snapped his fingers for a body bag. ‘We’ll send it for DNA testing. There’s bound to be a nail or piece of flesh we can use.’

  ‘Copy that, sir.’ The guards had zipped up the body bag, and rushed off with the corpse.

  The charred stench was unbearable. A black cloud of smoke had huddled together around the wreckage, burning Jack’s eyes. He studied the footprints of the runaway prisoners while bent over to the ground. His hands ran through his beard as he sighed.

  ‘We better head back to the Keep.’ Jack said when walking back to his rover. ‘There’ll be a full search team dispatched tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes sir!’ The guards choired, closing the back door on the corpse.

  Jack pulled at his vest, and got in front of his rover. His watery eyes drifted one last time across the darkening horizon.

  ‘They won’t survive one night out there.’

  Chapter 16

  The continuous beeping of a distant bell had awoken Richard Grey from his slumber. It was his at-home transceiver.

  He tiredly rolled over, and rose out of bed. The floor was cold and the room was dark.

  Richard clapped his hands together, and four white lights on the ceiling lit up. Its bright pallid glow had scorned his eyes, and Richard looked away. The constant beeping pestered his tranquillity, riddling his mind with questions.

  Who could be calling him at this late hour? He peered at the clock on his wall.

  2:30 AM.

  Richard Grey had stomped down stairs and into his home office. Even though he’d lived by himself, he shut the door behind him. The sleek and silver transceiver was stuck to the wall at the far end of the room, opposite of his desk.

  Richard licked his palm, and did his best to straighten his hair. He cleared his throat, and accepted the call. He had only noticed his clenching fists as the wild ringing had stopped.

  Jack Crowe’s projected face had emerged from the transceiver, vaguely displayed in the air as a hovering ghost.

  ‘Good morning, Crowe.’ Richard said, dryly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Something has happened, sir.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Jack’s eyes had avoided those of Richard, nervously studying the background. He saw toppling piles of dusty books at the end of Richard’s desk, and was struck cold.

  Although books were quite rare and valuable in Emitton, these books of Richard Grey were something entirely different. In big, bold, red letters they were titled: THE CONQUER OF HUMAN KIND and HOW TO DESTROY THOSE DECEIVING YOU.

  Jack gulped.

  ‘We’ve had a–brief security breach–and–some of the prisoners had–escaped.’ He said, watching carefully, holding his breath.

  Richard Grey stomped to his desk. He wacked a pile of thick books to the floor, and gripped the edges of his desk. His hands plucked at the wood, trying to break it in half.

  ‘How could you let this happen, Crowe, AGAIN?’ Richard’s voice was fuming.

  ‘It was a hoa
x, sir! I’m sure if we look into it, the rebellion–’ Jack was cut off.

  ‘How many had escaped?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘TEN?’ Richard’s cheeks were enflamed.

  ‘Nine. We’ve dealt with a casualty.’

  ‘And?’ Richard asked.

  ‘And what, sir?’

  ‘Who were the other nine?’ Richard thought hard. He recalled the dreadful imagine of all two hundred and one juveniles he’d exiled in his time on the board. He’d hated each and every one of them (and wouldn’t mind going at their throats).

  ‘We don’t know the identity of the deceased yet. The corpse is scorched to the bone.’ Jack Crowe lifted an image of the charred body. Richard looked away, appalled and horrified.

  ‘Could your men salvage it?’ He asked.

  ‘Most of it, yes.’

  ‘Have you tested it for DNA?’

  ‘We’re sending it over with a drone, sir…First thing in the morning.’ Jack lowered the image. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Well, it could’ve only been one of the ten that had escaped.’ Richard said. He paced up and down the length of his office, his robe dragging on the floor. ‘Who were they? Do you know?’

  ‘We know, sir.’

  Richard had fallen impatient. ‘Then who are they? Speak up man!’

  ‘Well, from our census, we’ve concluded it to be all inhabitants of room 23, and one inhabitant from room 12.’ Jack Crowe read from a list. ‘They are Aaron Davis, Melanie Brown, Victoria Scabs, Eric Boss, Luna Monroe, Donny Rodriquez, Jamie Sullivan, Luke Asher, Shawn R. Mustang and…’

  ‘And who?’

  ‘…Samantha Cyrus.’

  At the mention of Sam’s name, Richard Grey froze. His eyes rose, and drilled into those of Jack Crowe. ‘SAMANTHA CYRUS?’ He spit like a cobra. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘They’re the only ones missing, sir.’

  This wasn’t at all what Richard Grey had wanted to hear. His hands were in his hair, and his tongue between his teeth. It felt like all his insides were turned upside down. He glanced at the clock on his desk.

  3:00 AM

  ‘The rebellion.’ Richard whispered, so Jack couldn’t hear. ‘They’ll destroy everything. My plans…they can’t!’

  His hands had raided the pockets of his robe, and removed a white vile of pills. He popped it open, and gulped down two. Richard’s eyes twitched; his pupils dilating.

  ‘Crowe,’ he said, standing up straight. ‘Find them.’

  ‘We’re on it, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and Crowe,’ Richard walked up to the projection, his eyes threading distance from Jack’s. ‘This is your last chance. If you don’t succeed, I’ll have to take things into my own hands.’

  Jack breathed deeply. He nodded, and his face disappeared. The room went darker, and the transceiver retracted. Richard Grey was left all alone, drowning within his thoughts.

  This could be of an advantage to him, he thought. No.

  If Samantha Cyrus reaches the rebellion, she’ll fuel their hope. They’ll want to free the prisoners from the Keep, and then the people of Emitton (the people that don’t know they’d been caught yet).

  Richard Grey sat down by his desk. He had an overwhelming feeling of anger bubbling up inside of him. Human kind was a disgrace, taking everything for granted.

  It was time they’d been shown who is boss.

  Chapter 17

  A ghostly silence had drifted across the desert, its serene lullaby quietly sussing the last remaining rays of sunlight to sleep. The only noise was that of nine fleeing prisoners, panting out of breath.

  Their fast paced run had developed to a pathetic crawl of a walk, leaving them edging onward on both feet and hands. They’d urged for the comfort of shelter, not only to rest, but to protect them against the dangers of the night.

  ‘Look!’ Sam breathed, barely wetting her mouth.

  The rugged remains of an abandoned house had revealed itself from under a dune, and Shawn took lead in breaking down the door. Its wooden frame plucked from the doorway as a flimsy shard of bark from a tree.

  Inside, it was dark and dusty. A faint pong of aged mould and dry brittle wood drifted through the air. There’d been four open windows, its hinges long ago stolen. It was a one room cabin, complete with chipping wooden floors.

  As Aaron stepped inside, his entire foot had sunk through the floorboards.

  ‘How nice,’ He sighed. He dug his foot out of the hole, and removed a splintered piece of wood along with it.

  ‘Here,’ he said while chucking it at Luke. ‘We have to build a fire if don’t want to freeze to death.’

  Luke frowned as he glanced at Aaron. Someone’s crabby tonight, he thought. ‘Right…I’ll get started then.

  Shawn stood in the doorway, and clasped his hands together. ‘The coast seems clear…for now anyway.’ He said. ‘But the crow will most likely launch an entire search party tomorrow. We better make sure that we’re out of here by first light.’

  An uncomfortable had silence drifted throughout the cabin. Everyone came to reason, and gathered their thoughts.

  ‘Did everyone make it?’ Sam asked in a hoarse voice. The room was dark and she struggled to identify the faces surrounding her. She counted their shadows, her finger trembling. By shocking revelation she’d found there were only eight of them. Who’s missing? She wondered.

  ‘Jamie! Where’s Jamie?’ Luna’s aching voice rose above the darkness. Her panicked body flinched forward as she burst into tears. ‘She’s not here! We have to go back!’

  Luna leaped for the door, but found herself running face first into a solid mass: Aaron.

  ‘Luna, we can’t go back! If Jamie’s not here, I’m sorry to say, that she didn’t make it…’ His bulky hands curled around her fighting wrists. ‘There is no going back.’

  ‘No! Don’t say that! You don’t know her like I do!’ Luna wrenched away from Aaron, and grabbed her hair. ‘She…she could’ve been taken back to the Keep. They could’ve caught her.’

  ‘If they did…she’ll be executed.’ Aaron said. ‘She’s gone Luna.’

  ‘Stop it! She’s the nicest person I know, and she would’ve gone back there for me!’

  Sam placed her hand on Luna’s shoulder. She felt the tense pulsing of sorrow flooding through her friend’s shaking body. ‘Luna, I–’

  A sharp elbow plunged into her gut, forcing Sam to fall back, and into Shawn’s arms. She couldn’t breathe.

  Luna slid past Aaron, and ran outside. She fell to her knees on the sand, staring up at the star filled sky. Her hazel brown eyes were filled with tears. She wasn’t sure if she was crying for the miraculous sight of bright, shining stars, or the fact that her best friend might now be a part of them.

  ‘I should’ve been there for her.’ Luna could barely utter the words.

  A lone wolf, that’s what she was.

  To Luna Monroe, life was just easier that way. She had no one to care for; and no one holding her back from conquering her dreams.

  Luna lived by herself in a tiny flat above an old and abandoned art studio at the centre of the Lujoso district. Well, abandoned to society that is; for Luna used it every second of every day. It was the only place where she could truly be herself within her art. She had loved drawing, and painting all sorts of life from the distant past. She had once painted a bright blue bouquet of daffodil flowers (even though she hadn’t the slightest clue of what they’d looked like). Her imagination ran without reigns, and painted all she could possibly think of.

  Luna’s most prized possession was an old, oil painting of two of rich business women leisurely strolling down the side walk. She had stared at it always, dreaming of the day she’d finally become one of them–by selling her paintings of course.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Upon finishing her fifth masterpiece, Luna had decided to pay a visit to the Emitton National Gallery. The people of Lujoso were so used to her pawning her smaller paintings on the stre
ets (even so much so, that a few wide-eyed men had come asking about those she’d carried around).

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Luna told them. ‘These are not for selling.’ Not to you at least, she thought.

  The executive of Emitton National Gallery was no one other than esteemed board member, Tamara Amador. She had not only ruled the art of abstract attire, but also all pieces considered as national Emitton heritage.

  Tamara’s private office had been fourteen floors up, on the top floor.

  Luna gently knocked, her palms sweating uncontrollably, and waited. She heard a soft accepting call, and entered.

  On the inside, behind a large oaky desk, Tamara Amador had sat sunken away in a red feathery chair. Luna gasped, staring upon the famous snowy white locks she’d heard so much about.

  Tamara smiled broadly. ‘Sit, my child.’

  Luna looked around and scuffled towards the window. All she saw was a hefty metal block, resembling nothing to a chair at all, and took a seat on its flattest edge.

  ‘I was wondering if you could have a look at these.’ Luna said. She sat down her satchel, and revealed her work. It was two notebook sized canvases; each drizzled in colourful scenes of restaurants and parks.

  Tamara widened her eyes.

  The sun was shining in through a great wall of bright, marble windows. It reflected all colours of the rainbow onto Luna’s lap, and her work; illuminating it. It was as if all at once, they had come to life.

  ‘You’ve painted all of this yourself?’ Tamara asked. She studied the paintings from top to bottom. Her eyes had paid close attention to the faint brushstrokes and colourful scenery, every now and then crinkling her nose just to get a whiff of the paint.

  Luna nodded. She had tried so hard to read Tamara’s mind, but failed.

  ‘They’re really good.’ Tamara said, finally, as she sat the canvasses down. ‘But, unfortunately I can’t buy them.’

  ‘What? Why not? You said they were good.’

  ‘You’re just too–young–too–inexperienced. I’m really sorry.’

  Luna was devastated.

  Every dream she had ever dreamt was ripped to shreds. In sheer upset, she rushed from Tamara’s office, and ran to the work of her favourite artist: Jean La’Mieur. He had passed away quite some time ago, but within Luna’s mind, the timelessness of his art never failed to resurrect him.