The Lucid Dreamer (Dystopian Child Prodigy SciFi) (The Unmaker Series Book 1)

by Casey Herzog

  “You are never safe at the University. Know that now, Dante the healer. I don’t think this is the first time you’ll hear these words, and surely not the last.” She put her hands and feet on the ladder. “Only the best survive, those that deserve it.” She slid down suddenly, moments before shouting, “And you never know when danger might just come for you first!”

  A figure detached from the shadows of the roof and Dante’s blood went cold. He had only a moment to react, his hand rising to block a savage punch thrown at his face.

  The healer grunted as the fist skimmed his face and he stumbled, looking back several feet towards the edge of the roof.

  “Who the hell are you?!” he cried in shock.

  The dark figure came again, throwing a high kick at Dante’s face and following up with another to his chest. Dante danced out of the way and threw a punch of his own, missing the stranger completely. The man — his grunts gave him away as a masculine opponent every time he attacked — danced on the spot before throwing himself forward and kicking the boy’s feet from under him. Dante cursed and rolled away, charging into his attacker and throwing a fast jab into the man’s gut.

  “Oof,” the man said, but he clearly had baited Dante into getting this close. With a swift movement, he threw Dante to the ground and kicked him in the ribs, sending pain up the boy’s body.

  “You…bastard…” Dante spat, the humiliation hurting more than the already fading pain itself. He spun and lifted himself to his feet in a quick motion — a move that Callum had taught him — and threw a few kicks at the man.

  It was already over. The fighter had grown bored and had seen enough.

  Dante never saw the elbow that smashed into his face as the man sidestepped his attacks and counterattacked with a swift strike of his own. The healer was thrown off his feet, landing on the very edge of the building. He cried out, feeling his body sliding slightly down over the brink.

  “Help!” he cried, but the man just stood there watching. “Please, help!” He was going to die, he knew. The building was simply too tall.

  His fingers slipped all of a sudden and Dante screamed…

  …but was caught before he could plummet to a certain death.

  The man lifted him up high and suspended him at eye level. His attacker was a ragged, bearded man with a scarred face.

  “You’re absolutely atrocious at hand-to-hand combat. I hope you can fire a gun, because otherwise you won’t last a minute out there.” Before Dante could speak, the man scoffed and shook his head. “Come back here tomorrow, child. Let’s see if I can make something out of you.”

  The man walked away from him and disappeared into whatever hiding place he’d emerged from in an instant.

  Dante was left standing there, looking around and breathing heavily while a line of blood ran down from his nose onto his lips. He leaned against the wall behind him and slumped down onto the floor.

  “What the hell just happened?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  ~Rats in a Cage~

  The night was chilly and unforgiving. Callum trembled and shook softly on the hard concrete. There was no real cover in his cage, thick metal bars comprising the walls and ceiling of his enclosure. The floor was a small square of concrete with a hole and pipe in it for him to piss and shit in. This is a chicken coop, not even a cage. He felt like banging on the bars of his cell, but he had seen the brutal consequences that took place when somebody bothered the guards.

  The cages were mounted one on top of the other in layers upon layers of levels, each divided by a thin floor and accessed by the metal walkways he had seen on entering the prison. It was a squalid, hostile environment that was probably designed to destroy the prisoners’ psyches.

  I doubt even the guards can handle this for long, he thought. They were probably replaced weekly, at most, if the people in charge wanted them to remain sane. One particular guard passed by his cage just then as if summoned by his thoughts, and he tried to look past the man’s enclosed helmet.

  “Please, a blanket,” he attempted, but the man slammed a baton hard against the bars of his cage and passed by without uttering a word. There wasn’t going to be any pity from his captors, by the looks of things.

  Callum had lost sight of The Whisperer and Captain Fillmore, but he had witnessed the moment when Russell had been locked into his coop; it had been a scene of extreme noise and violence. The soldier was fortunate to have been imprisoned above and across from his enemy, which meant he could keep watch on the man whenever he wished to, while having enough space to avoid the enhancement-riddled killer’s gaze.

  The warlord had walked calmly into the holding area at first, his eyes fixed to the ground as he and his captors had risen on the elevator to third floor of Block B — the one parallel to Callum’s D — the man’s expression was one of a beast being led to slaughter, but it was clearly a ploy to make the guards feel confident. He is aware they know who he is, Callum knew. Better to show them a weak, fearful Russell than a confident, cocky one. However, it didn’t take long for his true nature to show its face.

  At the very entrance to his cell, Russell stopped. The helmeted guards took a step towards him and ordered him forward, lifting their weapons. An electrical current ran up the batons and made them shine menacingly. A second order. Move. Now.

  That was when they made their second mistake. The first had been to only send two guards to accompany Russell. The second was to touch him.

  The effect of the twin batons sinking into his skin was similar to effect they’d have had sinking into an ocean. Russell didn’t even flinch.

  The first guard’s helmet cracked as the warlord’s metal fist shot forward like a piston, the blow throwing him up and over the rail and sending him down to the ground far below. The second man had an instant longer to react; his sidestep enough to avoid Russell’s deadly punch, but not to evade the kick that followed. The guard’s head was slammed against the rail and his body went limp and unconscious. Or dead if he’s unlucky, Callum thought.

  Cheers had followed, and more guards ascended up to the site of the event. Callum knew Russell was aware of the futility of his battle, but it was clearly an issue of dominance taking place in the worst possible way.

  He’s never been in a cage before now; he’s only watched over them. The psychopath moved like a cage fighter when the guards approached, his fists raised and his eyes narrowed as the men took a step forward in unison. There was a brief, instinctive look to his belt, a place where he had been carrying a dangerous blade before his capture. It was no longer there, but he was equally as deadly without it.

  “You want some?” Russell hissed, and the Coalition squad attacked as one.

  By the time he was thrown into his cage, battered and bruised all over, he had succeeded at wiping out two entire squads of ten guards each on his own. They had been forced to strike him down with thick clubs after even their stun gas had failed. Cheers rang all around, and the guards had the extra effort of having to calm the prisoners down after the fight. One thing was for sure, Russell was soon going to build an army at the prison as easily as he’d done in his own city.

  Callum had watched it all in awe, wondering how he had decimated the warlord’s forces so effectively at Ayia. I accomplished what I did at his tower because I never faced their big bad leader, that’s how. I’d be dead now if I had been forced to fight Russell head-on.

  The battle at the Tower of Ayia had been a bloody one, but it could be said that he and Dante had won it by a hair’s breadth. It wasn’t a good enough reason to celebrate — he was locked up with Russell and the Whisperer now, and as soon as the cell gates opened, they might have already planned their revenge. In prison, everyone was an equal. One moment of laxity from the guards and Callum knew he’d be dead, whether it was a slashed throat or a piercing stab to the heart. A moment would be all it took.

  The alarm rang from out of nowhere, as if the soldier had brought it upon himself with his negative thoughts. Ca
llum jumped as the gate to his enclosure sprang open, along with dozens of others. It was clear that not all would open to avoid riots, but there were still plenty of prisoners stepping out of their cells and stretching. Callum became nervous. I have to locate Captain Fillmore right away. If we can ally and keep ourselves together in this shithole for as long as we’ll be here, we have a chance. Fillmore probably had some of his patrol guards still alive within the jail. It would be enough, Callum told himself. If there’s not already some other gang waiting to shiv us in a dark corner, that is.

  He took a step out and watched as the guards kept their eyes on each of the prisoners exiting their cages.

  “Descend on the elevator closest to you,” a tall guard barked, “Slowly and with your hands where I can see them.”

  Callum knew better than to disobey his orders, having dealt with civilians as a Coalition soldier. They were trained to cooperate with non-military figures, but when it came to Coalition, the gray-armored soldiers came first and everybody else came second. He would quickly be beaten and thrown back into his cell if he didn’t comply with the orders given. It wouldn’t end there; the guards would make sure to turn his next few days, months or even years into a shitty existence until he either killed himself or did something stupid.

  I’m not giving them the chance.

  He shared the elevator that took him down to the ground floor with five other prisoners and three guards, the cramped space uncomfortable and tense as his fellow captives probably asked themselves if they had a chance to use the guards as hostages to escape. At least, that’s what Callum imagined they were thinking. It’s certainly on my mind, he thought amusingly. Anybody stupid enough to attempt it would be dead within an instant — the guards on the towers were probably chosen from among the best sharpshooters in the force and would not miss their shots, even if it meant losing a guard or two in exchange for a few dead prisoners.

  The elevator reached the ground floor, and the guards ordered the prisoners forward. Only then did Callum realize how hungry and thirsty he felt. He wishfully imagined himself being called forward to eat at a mess hall or somewhere similar, but it was an unlikely fantasy.

  He hadn’t taken ten steps from the elevator — food filling his mind and the longing for a glass of ice cold water — when he heard the voice.

  “Soldier,” the rasping whisper breathed. Callum stopped, straightening and allowing a pulse of adrenaline to enter his blood. If it was happening now, he was ready.

  He turned to look at the man standing to one side, but then he noticed that the Whisperer carried no hostile demeanor at all.

  “What do you want, Whisperer?”

  The stone-faced biker stared deep into Callum’s eyes. The cold blue of the staring orbs could have easily unnerved another man, but Callum had faced much worse during his existence.

  “I want to be the first to offer you an alliance.”

  Something began to pulse in Russell’s head, but he clenched his eyes shut and shook his head softly. Not now.

  The bruises on his flesh and the cuts on his skin were nothing compared to the frustration and rage he felt at not having been a part of the first batch of prisoners allowed out of their cells. You’ve earned that yourself, a voice said in his head. Diplomacy had never been his forte.

  He’d watched the soldier from Ayia exit his cage and descend to the ground floor. Even now, Russell could stretch far enough to see the man chatting with Reiner.

  “You bastards,” Russell barked with effort, holding his throat closed as he did, “Are so unlucky that you’re locked in here with me…” A guard yelled at him to keep his silence, and the warlord obeyed only because he was done talking.

  He allowed his gaze to fall on those men still trapped inside their cages, and he saw familiar looks. He had already done this before. Even now, just kneeling in his cage and attempting to remain calm, he was winning his fellow prisoners over. Before long, they would approach him and offer him their help. He would respectfully request they demonstrate their abilities and loyalties, and it would all begin from there.

  As always, there must be some clown in charge already among the prisoners. My first job is to find out who it is. The next will be to snap his neck. It wasn’t absolutely necessary, but he’d need trouble out of the way first if he wanted to get out of the prison.

  But then there’s the matter of both Reiner and the soldier. That’s where it gets interesting. After all, when it came to them, it had nothing to do with gaining soldiers or rep.

  It’s a matter of their blood flowing, and above all, of my revenge.

  The alarm rang a second later, and the cage bars slammed open.

  Russell looked up and smiled.

  Thus it begins…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ~Message~

  The sunlight shone down on his face, and Dante sighed in relief. Finally, it was morning. He hadn’t been able to get any sleep, and the night had become endless. Not that I didn’t have any thoughts to accompany me, he thought, recalling everything that had passed through his mind during the dark hours before sunrise.

  Questions were in his mind; questions that needed answers soon if he wanted direction in his life. The healer felt strange remembering he was only ten years old, yet he felt like an old man who had been through a bit too much during his existence. Doubts lurked in every corner of his mind, as well as the eternal mysteries about his origins. I still haven’t resolved any of the questions I had before arriving other than ‘What is the University’? Even then, I can’t be certain I know even a fraction of the truth.

  Margaret had given him the first tools to think, analyze and doubt, Johanna and Callum the rest. Nobody did anything for free, and if the University was training them without any apparent interest, there was surely something more hidden behind it all.

  He slipped down off the dusty bench he’d been lying on. A paper fell off his chest, and his eyes narrowed. It was a hand-written message.

  ‘I forgot to tell you…Your class is in the Wilderness Camp, southeast of here. 8 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. – Mya’

  Dante tilted his head to one side curiously before shrugging. Nice of her, I guess. Without a second thought, he descended down towards the living quarters once more. He recalled he hadn’t eaten and began to wonder if it was wise to ask anyone where the mess halls were.

  “Hey you,” a curious voice said, interrupting him before he could make the decision. Dante turned and saw a teenaged boy approaching him in the lonely passage he was traveling down. He was heavy, not quite fat, but still large. He was breathing hard. “You look lost. What are you doing up here?” The healer felt like rolling his eyes at the déjà vu-like moment of this encounter, recalling his meeting with Mya on the top floor of the building. He had a feeling that there was nothing random about this encounter, and that the boy had been trying to find him.

  “I’m heading back to the quarters. I’m hungry,” he said, before adding, “Do you have an idea where I can eat? I’m new here.” He had class in an hour. Somewhere, with some teacher. Wherever that ‘Wilderness Camp is’. I am so lost here.

  “Yeah, the healer and destroyer boy. I know who you are. My name is Roberto, but you can call me Rob. If I guide you there, can I ask you a few questions?”

  Dante was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this.

  “Well…okay,” he said with a grimace.

  The first few minutes passed in silence, the two of them walking along the corridors and down a flight of stairs. Even so, Dante felt his companion’s eyes on his back as they walked. Eventually, it became too much.

  “Just ask; I don’t need you to stare at me like that.”

  The other boy made a face and scratched his ginger head nervously.

  “Sorry. I’ve heard stuff about you is all. You fought the guy in charge of Ayia or something, right? The famous warlord.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “And then you came here and almost killed the Lord Cha
ncellor, right?” Roberto continued, ignoring Dante’s question. “How do you have so much power at such a young age? What do you do to practice and keep yourself at that level? Tell me everything, come on!”

  Dante stopped. He felt annoyed. Typically, he would have answered all of the questions, but the other boy was starting to piss him off.

  “Are we close yet? I think I told you I’m hungry. You haven’t finished guiding me yet, so I won’t answer anything. Stop bugging me.” The healer was starting to feel tense, angry. Is this another trap?

  “Sorry,” the chubby teenager said with shame, and they descended down to the familiar bottom floor through an unfamiliar staircase. “It’s in the building closest to this one.” He pushed a pair of doors outwards and a morning breeze came in, a draft so pleasant that Dante’s rage faded in an instant. “What a pleasant morning.”