Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  “Go flaunt your superior military training elsewhere,” he retorted. “Trust me, I can knock out a man about to fall over from exhaustion.”

  “This isn’t any man. Or did Seraphin forget to warn you?”

  Despite the precarious position he was in, Vermen was beginning to enjoy himself. Stern’s fear flattered him. Had all of Holt’s rebels grown terrified of him over the last years? He had shoved quite a few of them in prison.

  Andeal slowed and turned around, giving Vermen another cursory glance as he answered Stern. “He said we had a prisoner and to be wary.”

  “A prisoner.” Again, that mocking snort. It was enough to trigger any man’s hatred. “Andeal, may I introduce you to Captain Hans Vermen?”

  Andeal’s eyes widened and his mouth opened into an almost perfect circle. He’d stopped moving and his gaze went from the stripes on Vermen’s shoulders to the captain’s face, then to Stern. The astonished expression lasted about two seconds, then the blue man gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Still just a man.” He grabbed Vermen’s hand and gave it a false shake. “A pleasure.”

  He started off again, tugging a surprised Vermen along. How could he be calmer than the trained soldier? Did he have some sort of hidden trick, something only blue people could do? No. That was nonsense. They weren’t in some kind of fairytale, and monsters didn’t exist.

  After a few steps, Vermen noticed Stern hadn’t followed this time. The ex-soldier remained behind, the gun still in hand. The white lights sharpened his annoyed frown into a cold and hard expression. The captain offered him a large smile before turning away.

  As Stern disappeared around a bend, so did the remainder of Vermen’s energy. His shoulders slumped, his feet began dragging on the ground with every step. He might’ve been able to overpower Andeal—the blue man had no weapon—but his willpower barely kept him standing. He focused on putting one foot before the other, tried to remember the path they chose for later. A fuzziness encroached on his mind, however, and he couldn’t distinguish between one irregular tunnel and the next. Before long he’d lost track of time and when Andeal stopped in front of a door, he almost bumped into him.

  “Sorry.”

  Vermen regretted the reflex apology right away. What was he doing? He should punch the freak rebel, not apologize to him. He had to get a hold of himself and keep his wits about him until he was alone. He concentrated on the little room Andeal had just shown him into. It begged one strange question: was he a prisoner or a guest?

  His living quarters looked nothing like a cell—he’d slept in worse places as a soldier. Two layers of sheets rested on the hard bed, with an additional blanket folded upon them. Soft to the touch, inviting. An old wooden desk adorned the corner, accompanied by a mismatched plastic chair. The modern white spherical lamp clashed with the ensemble and spread a cold light in the space. None of the furniture fit together. The rebels must have pieced together the room’s decoration, one element at a time.

  Then Andeal untied his wrists. Vermen squirmed at the blue fingers’ touch but refused to protest. He quelled his disgust at the strange skin and kept his calm. What were they thinking? He could attack his captor now. Not exactly what he called ‘being wary’. Vermen stepped back, then shook his hands to ease the blood flow.

  “Is this a game?” he asked.

  “I have better things to do. Why did Seraphin bring you here?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I will.” Andeal shuffled backward and wiped his fingers on his pants. “Have you slept recently?”

  What did sleeping have to do with this conversation? Vermen crossed his arms and worked through the exhaustion to bring up his best smug smile. No, he hadn’t slept in days. The blue man didn’t need to know that. Andeal leaned on the doorway, unfazed by his silence.

  “Have you eaten recently?”

  Vermen stretched and cracked his knuckles, determined to keep his distance, but the question unnerved him. Why did he care? Why did Andeal study him with that reluctant, almost worried expression? Had the rebels never learned how to treat an enemy?

  “Okay, I get it. You won’t talk.” He rubbed his temples. “You may think silence is your friend but, trust me, you’ll regret it soon.”

  Andeal left and, after he closed the door, Vermen heard chains and a lock. The cozy room and lack of manacles did not change his situation. He was a prisoner here, at the rebels’ mercy. At Seraphin’s mercy. He had to get out before the Renegade came to his senses and executed him.

  That, however, required rest. Vermen strode to the bed and collapsed. He could plan his escape another day.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After Seraphin left, the consequences of Vermen’s capture sunk in Henry’s mind. Missing Union officers did not go unnoticed. The last time Kinsi visited his daughter in Reverence, he’d brought back rumors of citizens disappearing—militants for peace and other dissidents. Henry never protested or caused trouble. He didn’t deserve to be taken away. But if they traced the disappearance to his house? He could be next. Captain Vermen must have had friends.

  He started by cleaning his kitchen. He threw the spilled noodles away with a pinch to the heart, then wiped the soup clean from the floor. He lifted a fallen stool and set it so the foot hid the bullet hole. Perfect. The place looked the same as before. Except for the door.

  Henry ignored this slight problem and picked up Seraphin’s money from his counter. Where to put the bills? Under the mattress? He moved to the bedroom, slammed the window shut, then gathered the remainder of his clothes from the floor. He then reached under the bed to make sure nothing was left. His fingers closed around a cold and smooth cylinder. He swallowed hard, fear swirling in his stomach, and ran his hand down the barrel, along the trigger and to the cross. The coarse string pricked his fingertips.

  The pistol.

  Henry flattened himself against the floor. The holster laid a few inches away. How could Seraphin forget his skeptar? Did it fall when he’d tried to flee? It was a family heirloom, a religious symbol, and a weapon. Seraphin’s only link to his ancestors was too important to leave behind. He had no right to dump it on Henry like that.

  Henry threw it on the undone bed, moved to the kitchen and set water to boil. His stomach heaved left and right but food would settle it. In a half hour, Henry had cooked the second pack of instant noodles, devoured it, and cleaned the pot. The salty meal calmed his mind. He could hide the pistol somewhere far from the house. That would work.

  Another surprise waited for him in the bedroom. The old picture decorating his side table had vanished. Did Seraphin take it? Henry searched the surroundings again, found nothing. It had to be him, but why? Another mystery—one he didn’t have time for.

  He wrapped the skeptar in a tissue bag, held the package at arm’s length, and walked out of his house. Vermen’s electric pick-up waited for him outside.

  “This mess wasn’t worth sixty bucks,” he told the vehicle. He strode to the door, pulled it open. No keys, of course. “A thousand dollars wouldn’t be worth it.”

  Henry dumped the pistol inside, set his shoulders against the back, and started pushing. Clouds lingered in the sky but the sun pierced through. Within a few minutes, sweat rolled down his back and drenched his shirt. It took hours before he reached the tall grasses near the forest. Mount Kairn hid half the sun, and the shade cooled his overheated body.

  The pick-up’s dark army color blended with the forest behind. Almost.

  It wouldn’t matter. Henry headed back home, his feet dragging on the ground. What did he expect? A Union captain had disappeared. They would track him down, notice the broken door, and discover the military vehicle. Try as he might, Henry would be blamed. Arrested. Executed. All he could do was sit at his counter and wait.

  He did. They never came.

  * * *

  The following evening, Henry collapsed onto one of Paul’s wooden chairs in front of Kinsi. Only the three of them occupied the inn’s common room. The em
pty tables waited for customers that had disappeared through the years. He remembered the buzz of conversations drowning the music and smoke from multiple pipes hiding the ceiling. Today the National Radio filled the silence and only Paul lit his cigarette.

  Henry’s life:slow, ordinary, dreadful.

  A welcome change from the previous days.

  He tried to relax and concentrate, but couldn’t. Since Seraphin had left, he’d been living in a weird daze, unable to focus on the present. Kinsi had been scrutinizing him ever since Henry had offered to pay for the first round.

  “Where did you get the money?” insisted the grocer.

  “I helped a stranger out,” he said. “He must be filthy rich. He gave me enough to live for a month.”

  Kinsi answered with a doubtful stare. Henry’s lying skills hadn’t improved in the last day. There were other ways to avoid a topic, however. Like forcing another one onto the table.

  “Anything on the radio?”

  “The usual. Dead soldiers in Burgia, student unrest in Altaer, and nothing on the Race.”

  “It’s early in the season.”

  “It’s not,” Kinsi said.

  Silence stretched between them. Henry recalled the surge of hope from yesterday, when he’d first noticed Seraphin at his door. News from the Races at last! Ferrea was saved. They would have waves of tourists, Paul’s inn would fill up within the week, and the smattering of residents left in his small town could hang on another year. He’d rushed down the slope, headlong into crushing disappointment.

  “There will be no Annual Mount Kairn Race this year,” he said.

  The grocer blinked, then smiled. Relaxed. Why didn’t he react more? Didn’t it scare him?

  “Ready to admit it, I see.”

  “You knew?”

  His foster father laughed, took a long draw from his ale. “You should’ve, too. We’ve both lived on the outcomes from the Races for almost a decade. Preparations should’ve started three months ago. When you didn’t receive a single shipment of trinkets for your father’s shop I figured they’d canceled. Are you so surprised? Attendance was at its lowest last year. This is the result.”

  He could’ve told him outright. Instead Kinsi had let him stew and worry and hope. He’d listened to the dull radio every single day, like it was possible, like they might hear something important from it! Henry repressed his flare of temper. Kinsi would have a solution. He would know how to solve this problem.

  “What do we do?” Henry asked.

  “We leave.”

  No. They couldn’t abandon Ferrea. They belonged here. For years, they had breathed life into the squat houses. Without their presence, the town lost its heart and expired. Henry couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  “Never,” he said.

  “I can count Ferrea’s inhabitants on my left hand. We’re ghosts, roaming a dead village’s streets. There’s a life elsewhere, full of opportunities. We can’t stay, Henry. The world moved on without Ferrea. There is nothing left.”

  Henry fought against the words as each of them smashed his heart to pieces. Anger built under his earlier relief, spinning his head. He couldn’t accept this. Kinsi had it all wrong.

  “Ferrea is all I have left.”

  “It’s not. We’re here for you.”

  “Yes, it is.” Henry gritted his teeth together. “It’s not much and it’s crumbling, its empty houses like the pus-filled sores on those infected by the Plague—like my mom’s before her last breath—but it’s all I have left. And your solution is what? Run away and let it die? Father did that once and you called him a coward for it. You’re no better.”

  The grocer set his tankard down, edged forward, and put both palms flat on the wooden table. His lips formed a thin line, his eyebrows connected—Kinsi’s stop-being-stupid expression. Henry shuffled in his seat.

  “I remember the fifteen-year-old boy buying his first instant noodles with a smattering of coins because his father had run off, taking away the money stashed in their safe. Your father fled from his grief and responsibilities. I’m accepting mine and protecting my family. We’re broke. It’s over. But you can come with us to Reverence. We’ll house you as long as you need, or want.”

  Henry struggled to find a retort. He didn’t want to give up on Ferrea, not yet.

  “What about Paul?”

  The innkeeper turned in their direction at his name. He hadn’t missed a word of the conversation.

  “I have a friend in Agrinon who needs help starting a pub. I used my savings to buy a small house by the waterside, with a nice boat and all.”

  They all had a plan. Henry’s world slipped through his fingers and his friends, the last of Ferrea’s residents, helped it along. It left a bitter taste on his tongue and Kinsi’s pleading expression worsened his anger. How could he do this? Henry refused to even imagine life elsewhere. Only the radio filled the silence, the announcer’s voice droning on, dead as Ferrea.

  “… well-known for leading a band of criminals suspected of theft and terrorism. This man is also accused of murder. He is five-foot-ten, weighs 135 pounds and hails from Regaria. He can be distinguished by his long white hair, extremely white skin, and pale blue eyes, tinged with red. The authorities called him extremely dangerous. They demand you do not approach him but contact them if sighted.”

  Henry stared at the radio. How many Regarian with albinism ran around fleeing the police? One. Only one. And for murder charges. Didn’t they talk of Vermen’s brother? Merciful winds, what if Seraphin’s skeptar was the murder weapon?

  “I have to go.”

  He jumped to his feet. His heart drummed in his chest and panic blurred his thoughts. A criminal under his roof. He’d covered the tracks. What had he been thinking? Kinsi stood after him.

  “Henry, wait!”

  He didn’t. Henry crossed the pub without looking back. He shoved the front door open, ignored a second call from Kinsi and walked down the street, head bent. He’d shared a meal with Seraphin, helped him capture a Union captain, got rid of the illegal weapon. They could charge him with complicity now. Or worse! Henry didn’t want to think about ‘worse’.

  His belly grumbled so loudly he thought another storm prepared itself. Dark clouds covered half the sky and hid the moon. Didn’t one stormy night suffice? At least the air was lighter than the previous days. If the weather stayed like this, the night might become his last pleasant one as a free man. Not a thought he wanted to linger on. Henry tore his gaze from the clouds as he reached the slope’s top.

  Once again, a man stood in his doorway. Nothing white about this one, however.

  The stranger wore a heavy leather coat, with similar gloves and high boots. The hood from a dark sweater concealed his features. It couldn’t be Seraphin. He was too small and his posture too relaxed. Not a Union soldier either. What kind of man showed up at your doorstep, all in black and hiding their features?

  Hitmen. Assassins. Seraphin’s lot.

  Henry backtracked and dashed for the long herbs of the field. He flattened himself on the ground and hoped the man at the door hadn’t noticed him. He crawled farther along the hill and peeked up. The killer hadn’t moved. Henry was safe. For now.

  He could run away. Escape Seraphin’s hired gun and warn the local authorities. The closest police station was in Colhurt—an entire day’s walk. His belly rumbled as a protest. Too long a trek to go without food and he couldn’t get help from Kinsi or Paul. If he talked to them, they’d become targets too. No one would solve this problem for him.

  Henry had one tool, though: Seraphin’s pistol.

  He crawled through the long grass. His hands and knees sank in the muddy ground and in a matter of minutes his white shirt turned brown. He progressed at a snail’s pace and described a long circle around his house. The rustling of green blades accompanied his movements, his heart hammered like thunder and an earthy scent saturated his nose. His head spun. As he passed through the fields around his home, his hands began to i
tch and turned red and puffy under the cake of dirt. What a mess. He should’ve turned Seraphin away.

  At last, the electric car’s shape appeared through the jungle. Henry lumbered to his feet, flung the door open and grabbed the tote bag. His hands shook as he took the firearm out. The pistol burned his sweaty and itchy hands. He could kill a man now—the one at his door. Perhaps the day’s walk to Colhurt was a better option after all. Then what? Live on the run? Away from Ferrea? No.

  He crept down the road, his fingers clutching the cross. The squish of mud under his soles rang loudly in his ear. Every blade brushing against his forearms made him jump. He made his way back toward his small house, crouched and ready, his puffed fingers barely fitting next to the trigger.

  As he neared the road and his door, the moon peeked between the clouds and shed its white light on the scene. The hitman raised his head and the hood fell off.

  Smooth blue skin.

  As it registered, Henry wondered what kind of monster he was and a thousand horrible stories popped into his mind, coalescing into terrified surprise. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The shot blasted into the night. The man crashed to the ground as wood splintered with a loud crack. Henry coughed on the cloud of gunpowder.

  “Holy Lady! Don’t shoot again. Please don’t.”

  Henry dared to look. The stranger lay on the ground, protecting his head with one hand and holding his arm with the other. Although his gloves hid the hand’s skin, there could be no mistake about his face. Blue as the Kairn River. He hadn’t dreamt it. Henry stepped out of the grass, dazed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “You just shot me!”

  “You’re blue!”

  “I…” He rubbed his forehead and nose with a gloved hand then struggled to his feet. A sad smile materialized on his round face. “Am I? Sometimes I forget.”