by Greg Dragon
Once out of the eatery, we cut sharply to the left and push through the outer door in tandem, crashing each of the double doors into the stone wall in the Yard. Compared to the air inside the Pen, the outside air feels fresh and quickly fills my faltering lungs.
A headache starts in my skull, maybe from the exertion or the explosions of gunfire that are still ringing in my ears. Or from something else. It’s the first headache I’ve had since seeing Tristan. But there’s no time to think about all that.
A dull light illuminates us for a moment, before we have a chance to duck against the wall. Cole is waiting just outside, in the shadows.
“Could you be a little quieter!” he hisses. “Someone’s gonna hear us!”
“Too late for that,” I choke out.
“They’re after us,” Tawni says, grabbing Cole’s hand and pulling him toward the fence.
We have no idea whether Cole’s guy came through for us, but by God we’re going to try anyway. Cole finally seems to grasp the urgency and powers ahead, reaching the fence about five seconds before us. He uses the time to rip his prisoner’s tunic over his head and chuck it against the fence.
Nothing. No crackle of electricity, no smell of burning cloth, nothing. The fence’s power is off—but for how long?
We aren’t about to sit around and place bets. Cole already has his tunic on and is a quarter of the way to the top when Tawni and I start climbing. As usual, she gets in front of me immediately, using her long reach to skip as many rungs as possible. I hear a shout from the Yard, but don’t risk looking back. I have to keep climbing. Stretching my arms over my head makes my stomach throb and my crushed ribs grate against each other, but I push through it, even when the pain grows so bad that I start seeing stars.
We’re so close I can practically smell the freedom.
So close.
And yet so far.
Cole is straddling the barbed wire at the top of the fence, trying to avoid getting poked somewhere that will have a permanent impact, when I hear the next shout. It isn’t from the Yard this time, but from the street outside the fence.
This time I look. I don’t even have to turn my head, just have to look down. Half a dozen guards, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons, which are pointed right at us, are shouting for us to get down.
We’re trapped like rats.
My head pounds in rhythm with my heart.
Chapter Ten
Tristan
When we exit the transporter, it’s getting very dark in subchapter 14, but it’s only early evening, perhaps seven o’clock. The day lights on the roof of the cavern—which are already dim to begin with—are nearly extinguished, simulating twilight. I’m glad. It makes it easier to avoid being spotted.
Although most of the time the many subchapters in the Moon Realm blend together in my memory, becoming one continuous subchapter in my mind, I have a pretty good idea of the layout of subchapter 14 because we just visited it. Roc also has a map—he has a map for every place in the Tri-Realms—and we use it, along with our memories, to navigate our way from the transporter station, through the streets past the familiar government buildings, and into the light commercial district, near where the Pen is located.
I still haven’t worked out what to do when we get there.
We emerge from a crowded street, full of people bartering goods and services for their next meal, and see the intimidating fence surrounding the Pen. It’s a formidable obstacle, complete with barbed wire and signs warning of “Electrified Fence—Keep Back!” It certainly makes you appreciate being on the outside of it.
I feel a strange pull toward the Pen, but I resist it, trying to be patient. It feels like someone’s poking me in the back with pins. Not like the stabbing-knife pain from the last time I was here, but a lesser, more prickly pain.
The rock yard beyond the fence is empty. It’s getting late and the inmates are probably in their cells. I’ve never visited the Pen before—never had a reason to—so I don’t know their rules around prisoner visitation.
We have a choice to make. Hole up for the night and wait until morning to try to get inside the Pen, or give it a try now, at a time which will be considerably more suspicious. I manage to tear my eyes from the Pen and we head for a hotel.
The only option in near vicinity to the Pen is a ratty old building across the road. The ancient clerk at the front desk has a wispy white beard and pockmarks covering the whole of his face.
“We’d like a room for the night,” I say gruffly.
The guy doesn’t bother to look up from his newspaper. “Which one would ya like?” he says.
“Do you have anything available that overlooks the Pen?” I ask.
The man starts to chuckle, but then starts coughing—a heaving, wheezing blast of air from his mouth that reeks of disease. When he gets control of his lungs, he says, “We currently have one hundred percent availability.”
I guess I should’ve known, considering the number of people commuting out of the city every day. There’s no reason for travelers to stop in the 14th subchapter.
“Top floor, dead center view of the Pen,” I say.
“Room twelve thirty-five,” the man says, handing me a key. He’d slipped the key from a peg on a board without even looking at it. Roc and I make eye contact; his lips are curled into a smirk that I’m pretty sure mirrors my own.
The room is more like a closet, but is clean at least, with painted-white stone walls and slate floors. A single bed fills most of the room—we’ll have to duke it out for bed rights. There’s a shared bathroom in the hallway, but with no guests other than us, we’ll have it all to ourselves. It’s not the Sandy Oasis, that’s for sure. I could be having a massage right now. Am I crazy?
I close the door.
First we check the view. For someone wanting a view of the Pen—like us—it’s a good one. The Pen is dark and quiet. I can picture the girl sitting on her bed in her cell, wishing to be anywhere but there. I don’t dare to picture her on a slab of rock in the morgue.
But even so, if I can somehow get her out of the Pen, no doubt she’ll be pleased, willing to answer my questions about her use of voodoo dolls. That’s my best theory as to why when I’m near her it feels like I’m being tortured.
I feel the familiar pull toward the Pen, my scalp tingling. No headache yet, but I know it’s there, just below the surface, waiting to come out.
It’s freaking weird.
“I’ve got to find out if she’s alive tonight,” I say suddenly.
Roc glances at me, raising his eyebrows. I’m ready for him to advise me that I should wait until morning, that I should do the responsible thing, be patient, but to my surprise, he says, “I know. Let’s go have a look.”
When we pass the front desk, the same old man is sitting in the same position, reading the same paper, like he’s glued to the seat. Perhaps he has a neck problem, which explains why he again doesn’t bother to look up. Or perhaps he just doesn’t like guests; or more specifically, doesn’t like us. It doesn’t bother me—the fewer questions and looks we get the better.
The security at the front gate of the Pen is light—only a single guard with an automatic weapon mans the station. The prisons are all secured by Sun Realm employees, so they have access to more advanced weapons than most people in the Lower Realms.
I remove my shades, as they’ll make me stick out even more wearing them at night. I hope the low-brimmed hat will be sufficient to hide my face. I approach the guard with my head down, but I can feel him eyeing us.
“Hoping to visit an inmate,” I say casually.
“A guest?” the guard replies.
I almost say what? but then realize we’re talking about the same thing. Funny how they call their prisoners guests. “Uh, yeah, a guest,” I say.
“Visiting hours are over. Come back between ten and two tomorrow.”
The guard doesn’t sound like he’ll easily change his mind, but I have to try anyway. “Is there any cha
nce of an exception?” I say.
“No,” he says simply, his voice sounding tired, like he hates having to constantly have this conversation with people. I consider playing my son-of-the-president card, but decide against it as I don’t really want to give away my identity just yet. There’s a good chance the press will get wind of it and then my father will send guards to bring me back. Plus, I don’t want to rely on my name, or my father, for this mission. I might regret it, but for once I just want to be a random guy. Tomorrow I might change my mind, but not tonight.
“Okay, we’ll be back at ten in the morning,” I say.
The guard doesn’t answer, just stares at us. No, it’s not at us, more like through us, like we aren’t even there. We leave.
I know it isn’t a good idea to roam the city, especially at night, but we have to eat so we go for a walk. The subchapter has seen better days. Although the cavern it’s built in is magnificent, rising hundreds of feet above our heads and extending many miles in each direction, the town itself is deteriorating. Most of the shops and restaurants are boarded up, having insufficient business to exist. When people don’t have money, they can’t buy things—simple as that. I expect it means the remaining restaurants will be crowded, enjoying the benefits of being the only show in town, but I’m wrong.
The buzzing in my scalp lessens with each step away from the Pen.
We pass a tavern. Through the window I can see a lone drinker propped on an elbow, sitting on a stool at the bar. Nursing a drink. And I mean nursing. He’s sipping it like it might be the last drink he’ll ever take. Maybe it is. Maybe things are so bad that he spent the last of his money on the drink, and plans to commit suicide later tonight. I don’t know. Things like that don’t happen in the Sun Realm.
We get to the end of the street without passing another open eatery. Turning left, I hear the distant murmur of music playing. Halfway down the block the soft glow of candlelight drifts through an open doorway. The sign above the door simply says, Pizza. Not seeing any other options, we make for the light.
Entering the pizzeria, I let Roc step in front of me as I see half a dozen heads turn toward us. The music playing is by some Sun Dweller rock band, The Stone Crushers, I think, and has an up-tempo beat that makes you want to get up and dance. No one is dancing tonight. They are, however, eating pizza and it smells pretty good.
There’s no one to greet us so we just take a couple seats and wait for service. None of the other customers pay any attention to us. A few minutes later, a short bald man with horn-rimmed glasses pushes backwards through a set of swinging doors. He’s wearing a red apron and balancing four circular trays of pizza across his outstretched arms.
“Who ’ad the cheese?” he grunts.
Every hand in the place goes up except ours. He quickly dishes out the pizzas and collects a few coins from each party. Then he turns toward us. “What’ll ya have?” he says.
“Whaddya got?” I ask. When the guy’s eyes narrow, I realize I should’ve just said cheese pizza, because I know he has it. Instead, my simple question instantly draws more attention to us than I want. I glance at Roc. He’s chewing his nails off one by one.
“You’re not from around ’ere, are you?” the guy says.
“Just visiting for a day or two,” I say, hoping it will satisfy him and he’ll go back to serving us.
He raises a single bushy eyebrow. “Travelers, huh?” he says. “We don’t get many travelers. Where ya from?”
Now I know we’re in a bit of trouble. I can tell him the truth, tell him we’re Sun Dwellers, but I have no idea what effect that will have. Will he and his patrons be excited that Sun Dwellers are visiting their subchapter? Or will they be angry, ready to have a political discussion that involves their fists and our faces? All it takes is one Moon Dweller with a chip on his shoulder to cause us serious problems. On the other hand, if I lie, tell him we’re from some other subchapter, he might ask questions that I’m not able to answer. I’ll have to keep lying, spinning myself deeper and deeper into a web of deceit.
I opt for truth, for better or worse.
“We’re visiting from the Sun Realm,” I say.
Suddenly, it gets so quiet I can almost hear the sound of one of Roc’s chewed-off nails drop to the floor. It even feels like the music stops playing, although in reality the song just happens to end at the exact same time.
“The Sun Realm, eh?” the pizza man says. I know that everyone inside is listening to our conversation now, slices of pizza dangling from fingertips, some in mid-bite. I know the man isn’t going to let it go in a hurry. I’m glad the restaurant is only lit by candles—it’ll be near impossible for him to identify me.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Never served a Sun Dweller before,” the guy says, his light tone switching to heavy right about the time he says the words Sun Dweller. I sense a hidden meaning behind his words: It’s not that he’s never had a Sun Dweller in his pizzeria, but that he will never serve a Sun Dweller, even if they’re his only customers.
“Fair enough,” I say, standing up. “We’ll take that as our cue to leave.”
The pizza man puts a hand on each of my shoulders and pushes me firmly back into my chair. “There’s a first time for everything,” he says.
I’m not sure what he means. That he’s going to serve us like any other customers? Or that he’s going to head back into the kitchen and cook up the most delectable, hot, gooey, poisoned pizza he’s ever made? Whatever the case, I’m not going to take any chances. As soon as the owner barrels through the swinging doors to the kitchen, I’m back on my feet. Roc’s up at the same time, knowing without asking what our next move will be.
We move toward the door.
Two big men block the exit, standing tall with their arms crossed. Not good. I don’t even know where they’ve come from. I don’t recall seeing them in the restaurant—and if they had been, we would’ve seen them moving across the room to block us. They could’ve come from outside, but I probably would’ve heard them scuffle across the threshold, unless they’re professional sneaks. There’s a staircase that rises up from just to the right of the entrance, however, presumably leading to sleeping quarters for the bald pizza man. Perhaps he has sons who live with him, who, upon overhearing our conversation—key words being sun and dwellers—thought it polite to pop down and say hello. Of course, these men are staring right at us and their lips aren’t exactly moving; if not “hello,” I would take “good evening,” “welcome,” or even “hiya” at this point. No words—just stares. If these guys are his sons, they’re genetic freaks, more than twice the size of their dad.
“Excuse me,” I say, still trying to avoid a confrontation. They don’t move, just stand there staring. I try to squeeze through the middle of them, but they inch closer together, shoulder to shoulder. I attempt to skirt around them, but they move like a single organism, blocking the side. The only option left is through them. So be it.
I take a few steps back and charge.
The feint is as important as the attack itself.
I fake like I’m going to try and club each of them over the head with a different one of my fists. Because all of my activity is aimed high, they counter with high defenses and attacks of their own. The guy on the left covers his head with his arms and hands to block my attack. The guy on the right goes on the offensive, attempting a haymaker punch intended to end the fight quickly, possibly breaking my jaw or giving me a mild concussion.
At the last second I throw my head back and launch both feet forward like torpedoes. Each boot heel hits one of the guy’s knees. I have so much forward momentum that the impact is like getting hit by a concrete block. I feel their knees buckle, crack, bend back the wrong way. And I hear their screams of pain, a harmonized “ARGHHH!” that will surely bring the pizza man running back out of the kitchen.
They tumble backwards out the open doorway and I land on them in a mess of arms and legs, at least two of which contain broken bones. Not mine.
While I attack, Roc is not idle. He’s already out the door, grabbing me under my arms, hoisting me back on my feet. And then we’re running.
The guys with the broken kneecaps won’t be chasing us, but we don’t know who else might come to their rescue. Given our first taste of subchapter 14 hospitality, we aren’t about to stick around and plead our case to the locals. Apparently, all those screaming, cheering girls—the ones chucking underwear—at the parade the day before live outside the town.
We don’t hear anyone pursuing us, but we don’t stop running until we’re back inside our hotel lobby.
The hotel guy should look up, considering the way we burst through the door, panting and sweating and out of control. But he doesn’t. He isn’t reading his paper anymore either. He’s rolled it up and is using it as a pillow, his craggly old cheek resting upon it, smudging the print all over his face. Buzzing snores arise from his vibrating lips. Deep sleeper, I think. Hear no evil, see no evil. The perfect place for us to stay.
I never thought I’d be so happy to see the inside of that tiny shoebox room. Roc and I sit on the bed and look at each other, our eyes wide. Then we’re laughing, in between taking deep, heaving breaths, happy to just be away from that terrible pizzeria.
“What was that all about?” Roc says.
“I dunno. I guess they don’t like us,” I say.
“More like hate us.”
I nod. “Good thing they didn’t recognize me.”
“We can’t stay too much longer in this place,” Roc points out.
“I know. But I have to at least try to see her, to do something, to make sure she’s okay.”