The House of Grey- Volume 3

by Earl, Collin

  Damion smiled. “You found it. I wondered if you would.”

  Monson gestured around him. “What is this place exactly?’

  “This is my private weight room.”

  It was absolutely amazing to Monson that Damion was able to say this with a straight face.

  “Wow,” Monson reached for the water bottle and took another swig. “They sure do treat you right, don’t they? It sure must be nice to be ‘The Diamond.’”

  Damion slumped.

  “Please don’t call me that. I hate that nickname.”

  Damion Peterson doesn’t like his nickname? Monson thought. He marveled at the revelation.

  Damion continued. “And to be honest, this room isn’t something that comes with being ‘The Diamond.’ It’s actually the Horum Vir’s. I’ve just been using it because the main one sucks a fat one.”

  He gave Monson a guilty look and a sheepish smile. Monson returned the smile.

  “So you’ve been using my weight room?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s why you gave me the paper and were so secretive about it?”

  “Pretty much. Most people don’t know about it. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Monson studied him for a moment. “You know, I don’t care if you use it, Damion.”

  Damion’s smile grew. “I figured you wouldn’t.”

  He helped Monson to his feet and they made their way to the juice bar at the far side of the room. The juice mechanism sprang to life at the touch, and just as before, produced glasses of juice from its inner workings. Monson’s was again mango, this time with a hint of lime. Damion’s juice was red with a strong scent of strawberries. They sat down at the counter and drank in silence. Monson’s gaze turned upwards towards the closest plasma screen, which had come back to life.

  He suddenly shifted his eyes away from the screen as his own face popped into his mind. Creepy.

  Monson searched around for the slightest oddity, but everything seemed totally normal. No disembodied voice or spooky smooth-skinned incarnations of himself. For the briefest of moments Monson thought that maybe Damion was playing a trick on him; perhaps the video and voice were part of some elaborate prank. He pushed this thought away. If Damion was playing a trick on him, why help afterwards? He would not, of course; there would be no point.

  “You know, you’re not really what I expected.”

  Damion answered with surprise. “How do you mean?”

  “You’re really…I don’t know…nice.” It was the only word Monson could think of.

  Damion sighed. “You told me that once before, you know.”

  “I did?” said Monson. “Really?”

  “Yes,” replied Damion, “though, you were a lot less…ya know….broken then”

  “Ohhh…ouch,” said Monson, waving his hand as if it stung. “That one hurt, Mr. Diamond.”

  Damion gave an appreciative chuckle, but turned away slightly as his expression turned serious, almost sorrowful.

  “Monson?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry. You deserved better than the hand you were dealt.”

  Monson raised an eyebrow.

  Damion laughed as he glanced at Monson out of the corner of his eye. “You and that eyebrow of yours. I can always tell when you’re confused.”

  Damion knew him well enough to read his expressions? Yep, it was official. Monson had no idea what was going on.

  “Sorry, Damion, but I don’t really understand what’s happening.”

  Damion shook his head slowly. “So, you really did lose your memory. I figured you had.”

  Monson gaped. “What did you just say?”

  “Your memory-you lost it right?” Damion asked the question calmly, like it was an everyday thing.

  “You know about my memory loss?”

  Damion gave him a guilty expression. “I know a lot more than most. A lot more than anyone in my position should.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t expect that you do.” Damion answered. “If you did, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not important. Let me say this. We were friends. Short-lived, but friends nonetheless.”

  “Was this before or after the Bridge?”

  “Before, but after the competition.”

  “We became friends after I beat you?”

  “Well…sort during the time you were beating me.”

  “How did we of all people become friends?”

  Damion shrugged. “It was either you or Derek Dayton, and I can’t stand that guy.”

  Monson chuckled.

  “Let me ask you this, Monson. How much can you remember about that day at Baroty Bridge, the past year, the rest of your life? Just between you and me. Has anything come back to you?”

  Monson did his best to answer. “Bits and pieces mostly. Though I guess I shouldn’t complain. More and more comes back to me every day.”

  “So you truly have no idea what happened to all those people or why you were there that day? Do you remember where you grew up? ”

  The truth was that Monson tried not to ask himself any of those questions-even the less dangerous ones. His dreams painted a gruesome picture of death and blood, hooded men, stacks of dead bodies, and other sights he could not even begin to understand. But the worst were the screams; they were so close and so real, like they were right on top of him. The screams made Monson question everything he knew-most of all, why he survived when no one else did. Not his grandfather, no one. Deep down beneath the layers of sarcasm and faked confidence, he questioned and pondered his own part in the happenings of Baroty Bridge. He did not know what he would find if he dug too much.

  Monson stopped his musing as he looked at Damion’s face, Damion’s expression was hungry and nervous.

  “You know, I knew long before that idiot Dean Dayton told the whole student body about you were the only survivor of the bridge incident.” Damion spoke in the same calm tone, though this time it held a hint of sorrow. “After I heard, I tracked you down to that hospital in Portland. This was about a week after you woke up. I was relieved that you were alive, but then I found out you weren’t allowed to see anyone but family. Monson, I’m sorry about your grandfather. I know how much he meant to you…even if you don’t at this point.”

  Monson nodded. Damion continued.

  “I didn’t find out about your memory loss until about mid-July. I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. I was just wondering why they weren’t releasing your name to the public or even saying that you had survived. I figured that they wanted to give you time to recover before the government agencies were on you like lice. This disaster has been the biggest ordeal since that close call with China two years ago. They still don’t know who did it or why. They’re also saying that the weapon that was used is like nothing they’ve ever seen-that it’s so advanced, it shouldn’t even exist. The police and FBI are baffled and to make matters worse, the only names that keep popping up are yours and your grandfather’s.”

  Monson’s shock gave way to amazement. Answers, someone was finally giving him real answers to his questions. Monson stared at Damion, desperate for more information. Monson didn’t even think to ask how Damion could possibly know all this.

  “So, if my grandfather and I are the only connection they currently have to work with, and I’m the only one not buried somewhere in the Pacific, why haven’t I heard anything until now?”

  Damion laughed. Monson did not understand why, and tried to keep his already-blooming scowl from becoming more prevalent. .

  Damion attempted to regain his composure. “Sorry about that, Monson. It’s just that I keep forgetting that you probably don’t know any of this.”

  “Know any of what?”

  “The reason why no one has been able to touch you.”

  Monson waved a hand as if to tell Damion to pr
oceed.

  “Every federal law enforcement agency was-and probably still is-trying to gain access to you. From what my sources say, they were literally ready to kick in your door when they found out you had woken up in the hospital.”

  The questions just kept piling up. First among them, why does Damion Peterson have “sources?”

  “So why didn’t they?” asked Monson, baffled. “My only family died on that bridge. There wasn’t anyone to stop them, and if it’s a matter of national security, who could have kept them away?”

  “I think you’re forgetting someone.” Damion tapped the side of his head as if to encourage him to think.

  Monson wearily propped an elbow on the steel counter. “I have no idea. There isn’t anyone who cares-”

  He stopped mid-sentence as the smile of a chubby, but unbelievably cute woman entered his mind.

  Molly.

  Damion, apparently reading his expression, continued his explanation. “A really scary lawyer lady said that you couldn’t remember anything and that if anyone tried to bother you she would personally…oh, what exactly did she say…rewire their undercarriage.”

  Damion considered the statement. “I think that’s a direct quote.”

  “Molly said what!” exclaimed Monson.

  “I know, right?” Damion said in disbelief. “Suffice it to say, she kept everyone away from you.”

  Molly’s goofy giggle came to Monson’s mind and he felt the corners of his eyes start to moisten. “Silly woman. She didn’t tell me.”

  “No, I don’t suspect that she did.” Damion’s tone suddenly became very serious. “For some reason, the FBI seems to think that you are the key to cracking the case; that there’s something that you know that could lead them to the people who…who did that. It’s been quite the fight behind the scenes. There’s a case going through the courts right now in hopes of gaining permission to talk to you without your beast of a lawyer.”

  “Well, Molly is right. I don’t remember a thing before a couple of months ago.”

  Monson said this without thinking.

  “Really? No details at all? You don’t know anything about what happened?”

  Monson shook his head.

  “You’ve seen the guest list-at least, the partial one?”

  Monson nodded. He had seen that in his research online.

  “None of those names ring a bell?”

  “No-”

  “You don’t remember a dozen or more fools with guns and a straight up killing spree of civilians before the bridge was destroyed?”

  “No. I don’t remember any of that. And how do you know if there were armed men or not?”

  Damion’s face turned beet red. He pulled out a flask from inside his jacket. He took a swig and coughed. “You know, for what it’s worth, Monson, I’m sorry for all this. Simply a matter of the wrong place and the wrong time.”

  Monson barely heard him. “Damion, back up a moment. There aren’t any reports of any sort of weaponry or other combat equipment found in the debris. Where did you hear there were armed men?”

  “I just did, Monson. Trust me. I have it on very good authority. Not that it matters now. It’s time to go.”

  Monson paused at this. “Damion, please back up. How could you possibly know if there were armed men or not? The only way you could know that is…if-if you…were there-”

  It was then that the knife in Damion’s other hand came into view.

  It happened so fast. The flash of steel, the feverish motion of bodies, the clatter of falling stools. An exploding, burning sensation deep from within Monson erupted as a demon-eyed Damion plunged a gleaming silver blade into him. Monson stared blankly as the life ran from his chest. With the blade protruding from him, he started to slump towards the floor.

  Voices in the back of Monson’s mind, Casey’s…or maybe Artorious’

  “Someone might be trying to kill you…”

  Monson was unable to feel his legs. “It was you…it was you all along…”

  Damion stared at the ground, his face settling into sadness as he closed his eyes. He struggled with his words. “It was me, and I am sorry it ended this way. I tried to make it look like an accident. But I’m not great at this. If it’s any consolation I wasn’t lying about coming to see you in the hospital. I wanted to be your friend, but-but he got in the way. He wants everything for himself, and you’re in his way.”

  Monson tried to talk. He managed to cough out, “But…why…kill me?”

  The voice rippling out from Damion was so harsh it grated on the ears. “Who said it was him who wanted you dead?”

  It did not sound like Damion.

  He laughed a malicious cackle, deep, dark and sinister. Monson watched, incredulous, as Damion’s face began to melt and the twisted, dripping shape morphed into Monson’s former unscarred countenance. A deafening crash ripped through the air as the walls of the weight room crumbled to dust. Equipment, dumbbells, TVs, and mirrors were dashed into a billion pieces as Monson saw the ceiling ripped asunder, and what was left of the room open to the wicked night sky. He stared up in horror as the floor sank and the bloody light of the crescent moon spotlighted his decent into the darkness.

  Black

  Swirling clouds of blackened thick.

  I awake from the foggy mists to a world,

  The world of death and gore.

  I put forth my hand and grasp a blade

  In the world of death and gore

  A blade of light, a blade broke through might.

  It asks me,

  It begs me,

  It commands me,

  Fight.

  My blade and I move amongst downed bodies, all fallen in the field

  The field of death and gore.

  I look.

  I see.

  I behold.

  Foes.

  In the house of death and gore.

  A challenger comes before me.

  A day of judgment.

  A day of reckoning.

  A day of death.

  In the house of death and gore.

  His fear,

  It clings to me.

  It exhilarates me.

  It liberates me.

  He will die,

  In this room of death and gore.

  There is no place for fear.

  There is no place for pity.

  There is no place for tears.

  Not in the room of death and gore.

  A Sword in his hand, he holds upright,

  I cleave down.

  My opponent falls.

  My opponent is gone.

  He will journey no more,

  From this place of death and gore.

  Others come.

  Others appear.

  Their fates all remain the same.

  To forget.

  To be forgotten,

  Left,

  In the time of death and gore.

  A man appears before me; in him I recognize,

  My reason,

  For fighting.

  For killing.

  For being.

  In this world of death and gore

  I attack this man with righteous might.

  Long lasting, the duel clashes

  Deep into this scarlet night.

  In this being of death and gore.

  We fight!

  A flash of Gray

  A flash of Silver

  A flash of Gold

  All come to a head in blades of black and white.

  I strike this man.

  And come to know...

  I will not prevail, nor overcome,

  As this man...is me.

  ***

  “As this man…is me.”

  Monson abruptly awoke, sensing another’s presence. His hand shot out with blazing speed, catching the arm of…Cyann Harrison.

  Wait…where am I?

  Lifting his head, he scanned his surroundings. He lay at the base of a massive oak tree. In the distance, he could se
e a portion of the back of the Battlegrounds.

  “Monson?”

  Cyann’s voice sounded pained. Monson grimaced. He had almost forgotten she was there, and realized he was still holding her arm in a vice grip. The sound of Cyann’s shallow breathing and her slightly red face alerted him to the fact that he was hurting her. He immediately released her.

  “Where is Damion? Did he bring me out here?”

  “Damion? As Damion Peterson?” Cyann cocked her head in bafflement. “I haven’t seen anyone but you, Monson.”

  No…that couldn’t be right. His gaze shot downward, searching his body for injuries. That knife strike should have been fatal-he should be dead! His mind was so fuzzy he could not think clearly. Monson slowly sat up and did his best to sharpen his senses as he continued to examine himself. He found no signs of injury: no holes or blood. He looked around him and listened. There were no fallen bodies or gory scenes, no agonizing sounds of the dead, but Monson was afraid to let his guard down. Was he awake? Was this real? There was only the normal campus scenery and Cyann Harrison, whose expression was becoming more and more perplexed as the minutes passed. Damion was surely nowhere to be seen.

  Was it all a dream? Or did Damion really try to kill me? Monson’s thoughts came to a halt as he suddenly noticed Cyann’s arm; the bruised imprint of a hand was manifesting itself on her olive skin.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He meant it. Shame was already gurgling in his stomach. He wanted to explain, to tell her why. Make her understand that it was not her fault that he was…was…. he did not actually know what he was.

  “It’s OK.” Cyann’s voice was gentle and soothing in a way that he had not known was possible, especially coming from her. “Are you OK?”

  “Am I OK?” he asked. The question confused him. Why would she ask that?

  “Yes. Are you all right?” Cyann pointed to where he was sitting. “You looked like you were having a pretty nasty dream.”

  She was concerned because she thought he was having a bad dream? He was not sure how to react. Was she making fun of him? Everyone has bad dreams. Why would she worry about his?

  “I’ll live.” His voice sounded slightly suspicious. “Comes with the territory. You know, being an ‘emo’ and all.”

  “What’s an emo?”