by Earl, Collin
Noise coming from the direction of the Atrium caused them to go silent and still. They inched closer to each other, preparing to flee. Monson inhaled deeply. They needed to calm down. If they went ripping from this room and people were really there, a pursuit and fight was sure to follow. They needed to get out of there quietly. Monson held up a finger to his mouth; Cyann nodded.
A cacophony of noise streamed in to where Monson and Cyann stood. It sounded like voices. The voices were muffled, but Monson was positive that whatever they were saying, it was not good.
“We need to leave. Any ideas?” Monson whispered.
Cyann bit at her lip looking mildly hesitant. “I do, but….”
Her voice dropped as a new voice boomed from the Atrium. Cyann and Monson stopped to listen. They tiptoed towards the door as the voice grew louder. Suddenly they both recognized who was speaking.
Cyann began again. “You don’t think…you don’t think that he is responsible for all this, do you?”
Monson wearily ran a hand through his hair. “Who knows? I’m going to look out and see if there’s anything worth seeing.”
Monson peeked out from behind the door, just a fraction at first and then a bit more once he realized that no one was looking their way. It was not a pleasant sight. Twenty or so commandos were shoving dozens of students to the ground, guns and swords pointed at the cowering teenagers. They were all surprisingly quiet, like they were waiting for something to happen. A large screen projected the grinning, masked face of Christopher Baroty. He was already well into a speech. Monson closed his eyes to listen.
“I am not above compassion, but at this point I will not tolerate troublemakers. There is much to be done and little time to do it. I promise that most of you will not be harmed. Actually, most will soon be rejoicing at the peace and prosperity attained by my actions. However, I am not above using violence to achieve my objectives. You will cooperate or you will die. For the uninformed, this is how it has always been and always must be. I should warn you that my associates are not as kind as I am. Now that we—”
“Enough of your babbling! What you do you want, Baroty?”
Monson flinched slightly as the voice interrupted Baroty’s speech. He did not recognize it, but it sounded authoritative. Baroty’s face, or rather his eyes, became cold, though Monson could detect the anger flaring just behind them. Anyone who was watching could actually feel the weight of his anger. Baroty did not answer the question, but merely gestured with a dip of his chin. A terrifying scream followed a half-second later.
Baroty smiled broadly. “The good late senator brings up a valid point. What do I want? What I want is everything, and soon I will have it. But right now, I would settle for Monson Grey.”
Whispers broke out; Monson was not sure whether it was the people who were sitting with Baroty, wherever he was, or the people in the Atrium. Regardless, Baroty waited until they were silent. He addressed the camera.
“I know you’re out there, Mr. Grey. I know you’re watching. I’m not going to find you, because soon you will come to me. Really, it’s in your best interest.”
Monson glared at the screen. “Best interest, my a—”
“You don’t believe me?” asked Baroty. “You need…convincing? Well, how about this?”
Baroty’s lips pressed together as his hands went for his mask. The sound of Monson’s own heartbeat drowned out all other noise as tears streamed down his face.
“No….” said Monson quietly. “No…it can’t be….”
He crumpled to the ground fe crHeor the second time that day as he stared into the face of Marques Grey—into the face of his grandfather.
Chapter 56 – Betrayal
His audience stared up at the face of Christopher Baroty, ignorant of the significance of his words. The commandos merely postured arrogantly.
“Monson, what is it?”
Monson felt his numb body reanimate as Cyann’s hand touched his shoulder. He turned to look at her, willing his tears of horror to morph into tears of anger and indignation. He grabbed Cyann’s hands, surprising her. He whispered softly.
“I wish that we had more time.”
Cyann’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Monson, what’s wrong? Why are you acting—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted Monson as ice formed in his veins. “I’m afraid that we aren’t going to be able to have that talk after all.”
Cyann stared at Monson, her deep blue eyes rolling over him in concern and confusion, not noticing his tightening grip. Her expression changed as she realized what he was about to do.
“Monson, don’t even think about—”
It was too late; the phrase was already past his lips.
“Combat Spell Six: Disturbance.”
Cyann’s body went limp in Monson’s arms and for the second time in the past twenty-four hours he scooped her up like a baby.
“I’m really sorry to do this to you, but I don’t want you to see what will happen—what I will become. I’m going to a place where I can’t let you follow. Live long, fall in love, get married, have children, and learn to smile freely. Hopefully every so often you and the others will think of me.”
Monson attempted to maintain his composure. His grandfather was alive, alive and probably responsible for everything—everything. The scars on his body, the destruction at Baroty’s Bridge, even Dawn….
Dawn, thought Monson. Can I even trust Dawn anymore? He didn’t know where Dawn came from, who he was, or how he came to be, only that Dawn had been placed in Monson as some sort of safeguard, a precaution to keep Monson in check…but that didn’t automatically make Dawn untrustworthy, did it?
It was irrelevant at this point. Monson was going to him…was going to find him and finish this. He did not know what Christopher Baroty…no, what Marques Grey had up his sleeve, but he was going to end it, finally.
Resolve firmly in place, Monson retreated into the innards of the common room, moving towards the door that the red-cloaked commandos had entered from earlier, the entrance to the rarely used self-service laundromat. A long, steep staircase with no fewer than three landings led Monson deep underground to another door simply marked “Self-service.” He wasted no time pushing open the door, being careful not to bump Cyann. A stillness and foreboding silence greeted him.
The room was long and neat, with several rows of newfangled side load washers and dryers, which looked so new that Monson had to wonder if they had ever been used. Yet not everything was neat and orderly. On the far side of the room near an unmarked door was a defined outline of still-smoldering destruction. In this quadrant of the room, soot-blackened floors were visible below cracked and crumbling machines. Weapons of the same type Monson and Cyann had stolen from the commandos lay scattered about, many of them broken and sitting companion to a host of tattered forms. Ripped and bloody fatigues hung from some of them while others wore shredded and stained party dresses and men’s dress clothes. All of them were piled unceremoniously in a corner.
Monson attempted not to wretch.
A fight had taken place here. That was the only logical conclusion; a fight had broken out and whoever had fought with the commandos did not go down quietly.
A groan caused Monson to stiffen and stop mid-stride.
For a tense minute, the only sound was the heave of his breathing. Then he heard it again.
Definitely a moan, it was clear as a bell in the quiet of the room. Monson was unsure what to do. Should he investigate? Should he leave? He had to protect Cyann, find a safe place for her before he started towards the end. But if there were others here…
The moaning grew louder. Monson made his decision. One last act, one last act of humanity might save his soul in the afterlife, assuming, of course, there was one.
Monson gently lowered Cyann to the floor near the entrance, trying desperately not to jostle her or make any noise. He placed her in the farthest corner from the darkened area, stood up quietly, and slowly unsheathed one of the hand
-and-a-half swords while he looped through some of the Combat Spells in his mind.
Nervously, he approached the now-louder moaning coming from the other side of the unmarked door. Monson attempted to open the door swiftly and silently. He poked his head into the shadowy expanse of the room, only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun.
“Damn,” said Monson aloud. “I should have seen that one coming.”
“Yeah you should have, but luckily it’s a mistake that’s not going to kill you, at least not this time.”
Monson let his body relax as the gun lowered. “Damion, what on earth are you doing here?”
Other voices sounded within the dark space; other voices Monson recognized.
“Damion, who is it?”
“It’s Grey,” answered Damion, turning to speak to the others. Monson heard the sound of bare feet slapping against the floor, then the door was flung wide open and he was pulled through it. Indigo Harrison, still in her brown mini-dress, clung to Monson like a long-lost lover. He permitted himself a moment of rest in her arms, allowing her hand to find its way to his thick, dark hair. She kneaded it with her fingers.
“I’m so glad you’re OK,” she said softly. “I assumed the worst…. But where are the others?”
Monson placed his hands on Indigo’s hips, gently pushing her away, and in the same movement turned and fled back into the main room. He reappeared with Cyann in his arms.
Damion and Indigo were back at his side in an instant.
“Cyann?” bellowed Indigo in a panic. “What happened to her, Monson? She’s not—”
“No, she’s fine. She just…just got knocked out in our fight with the commandos.”
Damion touched Cyann’s neck, apparently looking for a pulse. “She seems to be OK. But I don’t see any sort of wound. What happened to her?”
Monson shook his head. “You first. What happened and why are you all down here? What’s with the bodies in the other room? Do you know the situation outside?”
Several people starting talking all at once including, to Monson’s distaste, Boston Timberland and Christy Wayne. They all stopped with a single look from Damion. “We don’t have a clue what’s going on. We went to the after-hours party near the old dormitory; there’s a clearing maybe a hundred yards off the tree line. Students always head out there after the Spring Solstice. The school allows it; better on campus than somewhere else, I guess. Anyway, things started wrapping up around three in the morning when all hell broke loose. Grey, I’m talking some crazy stuff. Dudes with guns and swords, guys dressed up as Roman Legionnaires; hundreds of them. I’m not sure what’s going on, but whatever it is can’t be good.”
Monson fingered his hand-and-a-half sword. “If you guys were at an after-party out past the old dormitory, then how did you end up here?
“The soldiers underestimated the panic that their appearance would cause. Trying to stem the flow of hundreds of screaming teenagers can’t be easy. I’m actually surprised that they didn’t simply start hurting people. There wasn’t any particular person in charge; I just sort of moved towards The Barracks and the others followed me. Coren has a network of underground passages that the VIPs use sometimes; there are a few emergency entrances and exits around the school, one of which is near the old dormitories. We made our way back here; we’ve been here ever since.”
Monson gestured towards the door. “What about the madness out there? Was that your doing?”
Damion shook his head. “No, that was here when we showed up. Probably dead though, right?”
Monson nodded. “I can’t say for sure; but odds are, yes. Why didn’t you guys check it out yourselves?”
“Up until about fifteen minutes ago there have been commandos in and out of this room taking equipment and other stuff to the halls that head towards the conference rooms. We wanted to see what they were up to but we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Monson got to his feet. “Good. Keep it that way. As a matter of fact, if you can, I would find a safer place to hide until this whole thing blows over.”
“Blows over?” rang a new voice from the shadows behind Damion. “What makes you think it’s just going to blow over?”
Ignace moved out from the shadows, her blue dress looking tattered.
Monson addressed her. “Well, I figure if you off the shepherd the sheep will certainly disperse.”
Damion interjected. “Monson, you know something you aren’t telling us?”
“I do,” said Monson. “But it’s hardly relevant right now. Your job is to protect Cyann and the others. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, but what are you going to do?”
Monson smiled. “Me? I’m going to find the shepherd. I’m going to find the shepherd and then I’m going to kill him.”
They all gaped at him. Monson surprised even himself at how emotionless he sounded. He stood to leave, placing his sword back in its sheath and strapping it on his back. With a final look at the gathered students, he left the room. Damion closed the door after him. Monson took a moment to collect himself before proceeding back to the stairs and the makeshift command center. He hoped to slip out of there without anyone noticing him.
“Monson, wait.”
Monson, his hand on the hilt of his sword, was half a second away from drawing it. The slender form of Ignace Ikeco stepped into view, and not a breath too soon. He relaxed his grip on the blade and turned to her.
“Ignace, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the others?”
She ignored the question. “Where are you going?”
“I told you I’m going to—”
“Yes, I heard your super-cool comment about killing the shepherd. That’s not what I’m asking. Where are you actually going? Which way? What building?”
Monson bit at his lip sheepishly. “Oh. Yeah. Well, that....”
He cleared his throat. “I’m going to the Coliseum. I’m pretty sure that’s where the guys responsible for all this are hanging out.”
“And you were just going to walk up to the Coliseum and ask for a meeting?”
“Well, no not exactly.” Monson suddenly felt stupid. “I guess I hadn’t gotten that far yet. It doesn’t really matter; he wants to see me.”
“Who wants to see you?”
He hesitated. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter. I just know I have to see him. This needs to be finished and I’m the only one who can do that.”
“Monson, you’re really not making any sense.”
He cracked his neck in frustration. Ignace, as sweet as she was, was wasting his time. He needed to go. He tried to choose his words carefully.
“I know what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it isn’t going to make sense, but it has to be done. Go back with the others. I’ll take care of this.”
Monson turned from her again, starting for the door. He had only made it a few steps before—
“I can get you in.”
Monson stopped for a second time but did not bother facing her. He spoke softly. “What do you mean you can get me in?”
“Just what I said. I can get you into any building on campus, unseen and undetected. You’re going after the shepherd, right? The guy responsible for all this craziness? If that’s true, then it’s going to be a lot easier if you can just bypass the sheep.”
Monson sighed expansively. “Ignace, why can’t you just go with the others?” She stared at him silently until Monson sighed again.
“OK, I’ll bite. First, you need to explain to me how we’re going to get into the Coliseum undetected.”
“The VIP tunnels.” Indigo placed her hand on her chest. “My father owns the contracting company that did the tunnel work. I’ve been in the tunnels dozens of times. If you need to go anywhere on this campus, I can get you there.”
Monson rubbed thoughtfully at his face. It would be nice, for once, to get the drop on someone; for once, to have a hidden card to play. As great as that sounded, to have Ignace guide him was to risk
her life…for his suicide mission. That wasn’t fair to her. He had disabled Cyann with the intent of keeping her safe. He could not leave Cyann but bring Ignace, could he?
Monson reached his decision. “Is there somewhere you can hide on the way to the Coliseum? I don’t want you involved at all. Do you understand me? I don’t want you to even think about being near the fighting. You will take me there and then retreat and hide.”
Ignace gave him that knowing, ironic smile. The one she reserved just for him. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t plan on—”
Footsteps in the stairwell caught both of them off guard. Monson swore. They had remained there too long. The longer they tarried, the greater their chances of being caught. How stupid was he?
Ignace grabbed his hand roughly and quite forcefully pulled him towards an open door on the near side of the room. They took a sharp right and then dashed, as quietly as they could, down an incredibly long hallway. Their restraint was unnecessary; an incredible amount of noise was filling the tall, narrow space, drowning out any other sound. Whatever the commandos were doing above this hall, it was very noisy.
“Quickly,” said Ignace, far louder than she intended. They noiselessly scurried past a commando-filled room, pausing only to glance in before moving on. The quick glimpse completely baffled Monson. The commandos were directing groups of dirt-covered men and women in and out of a tunnel, each of whom were carrying buckets and depositing the dirt in a large multi-screened machine. It appeared to be separating the dirt and pieces of rock by sifting the contents through the layered screens. The scene reminded Monson of a History Channel documentary about early gold miners; they had used a similar contraption. He seriously doubted they were looking for gold now, however.
“What do you think they’re doing?”
Ignace tiptoed onward, glancing back over her shoulder. “Not sure. It’s obvious they’re looking for something, but the devil only knows what.”