Carry the Flame

by James Jaros

  You have to do this, she pleaded with herself, knowing that if she failed to free the pin, the slobbering lizard would devour her.

  Again she squeezed the torch between her knees, and with a strangling sense of panic grabbed the ring and jerked as hard as she could. Nothing. “No!” she burst out. “No!”

  She tried again, so hard she thought the ring would slice off half her finger. It gave, but only slightly. Furious, she jerked it once more, and to her surprise freed it. But the force of her effort nearly whipped her hand and the bear into the torch handle. She stared, shocked at how close she’d come to killing herself.

  The dragon attacked, and Cassie dropped the torch and saw it glance harmlessly off Tonga’s open mouth. Panicking, sure she’d waited too long, she tossed the mine at the Komodo and hurled herself over the edge.

  As she plunged toward countless bones, she looked back at the bear falling end over end in the last of the dying torchlight—and saw the enraged dragon diving after her.

  Jester climbed down the rope ladder into the dark cavern. Moving only by touch in a lunar silence, he descended into cooler, ever more moist air. The soothing temperature and humidity made him smile. And he felt confident, an invader well-equipped with his knife, to use the night to his favor. So strong and sure of himself that he wasn’t prepared for the missing rung on the rope ladder.

  He slipped so fast, the front of his feet snapped upright on the next rung and failed to arrest his fall. He plummeted past two more rungs before getting a death grip on the rope with his right hand, his only hold as he swayed over the black void.

  Slowly, he looped his left leg around the ladder and found another foothold. Only then did he hear the echo of his terror—“Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck”—and realize he must have screamed to set off such a long shadow of fear.

  He looked down, wondering what else he’d set off. Who’s there? He wasn’t worried about iddy biddy bitch. He wanted to find her. But he knew you were a fool if you didn’t worry about the threats you couldn’t see—and he couldn’t see a damn thing.

  “Ananda?” Linden called gently. “Leisha? Kaisha?” He’d searched the cubbyhole closet where he left them, and where they once secured the guns before the Mayor permitted the men to carry them freely. Linden had warned him to keep the firearms locked up, but the Mayor dismissed his concerns, saying airily, “Men must have guns to keep us safe at all times.” He wondered what the Mayor was thinking, with his men shooting drunkenly in the dark. Feeling safe now?

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, hoping the girls were huddled nearby. He didn’t think they would have traveled far in the chaos. He hadn’t grabbed a torch, preferring the cover of night. “It’s me, Linden.” He listened closely before going on. “I’m with the good guys. I’ll get you back to your people. I promise.”

  No response. All he heard was a spate of distant screams.

  Where the devil did they go?

  He stepped forward, ready to call softly again, when a hammer cocked on a pistol. He ducked and reached for his Ruger.

  The tunnel from Chunga’s pen was ending. Jessie held out the torch in alarm before seeing they’d come to a T-shaped intersection.

  “We’ve got a decision,” she said to Burned Fingers, whose blood had dried in rusty streaks on his face.

  The marauder pressed his blade into the Mayor’s back. “Which way is out?” he demanded.

  “We will go to the right,” the Mayor said in an imperious voice. The regal tone made Jessie want to beat him to death with a stick.

  “I don’t trust him,” Bliss said, still in the shadows a few steps behind them.

  “And going right takes us where?” Burned Fingers smacked the Mayor’s head with the butt of his knife.

  Wincing, the Mayor said, “To the back of the city, near your big truck and van.”

  “Isn’t that convenient.” Burned Fingers shook his head in the dim light.

  Too convenient, Jessie silently agreed.

  “You can trust me,” the Mayor said loudly. “Always, I am a man of my word.”

  From the dark recesses they’d left behind, they heard a creak—and the unmistakable racket of the dragon thrashing the circus wagon.

  The teddy bear mine exploded, ripping a gaping wound in the Komodo’s thick neck. But the shrapnel missed Cassie, streaking millimeters above her head as she fell just below the edge of the slope. With no torch, in utter darkness, she hoped to luck out and land on the narrow path she’d taken up there with William—and hit dirt on the higher part of the rise—but then she barreled right into the bones. The blunt impact scraped her back and legs and hurt horribly.

  She balled up, trying to squeeze away the throbbing that overtook her. She hurt so much she didn’t even listen for the dragon. And she was sure the bear had destroyed the beast.

  So when Tonga trod heavily in the darkness, Cassie, filled with disbelief, forced herself to stand. Just in case. She backed up only when the dragon crunched bones less than ten feet away, finally conceding the nightmare of the giant lizard’s continued existence.

  Her heel smacked a skeleton, and it rattled so loudly she feared—as she would have with ghosts—that it would reach up and seize her for the reptile. Looking around, she saw nothing in the blackness, but heard a frightening snort from the creature as he lumbered close. She had to flee—now!

  She ran blindly over the endless, unknown dead, stumbling and falling on the bones, horrified that she would leave the catacombs in the belly of that hateful beast.

  Sam tightened the knot on her white braid and pressed her shoulder against the edge of a dune, straining in the starlight to study the city. Much of it lay in ruins, but the roof still stood about one hundred yards ahead, including an area over a smaller pit where the caravaners were imprisoned. The shaky-looking scaffolding along the edge of the structure also remained in place.

  “Where is he?” she whispered to Yurgen, although Sam knew only Linden could attest to his actual whereabouts. Gunfire in the city had lessened, but they needed the Mayor’s chief emissary to free the caravaners, and give them an estimate of the damage and the dead—and the number of men they would now have to exterminate.

  “I don’t know, but he better get out here soon,” Yurgen said impatiently.

  Sam spotted sudden movement in the corner of her eye and turned in terror.

  “What is it?” Yurgen asked, alarmed. With his poor night vision, he could not see far.

  “A dog,” Sam said, relieved. She watched it limp away from the rubble.

  “I didn’t think they had any dogs.”

  “They don’t, but Cassie told me the caravaners had two of them. This must be Hansel, the one missing a leg.”

  Yurgen called to it. The dog started in their direction, but stopped and stared at them, eyes reflecting two stingy spots of starlight.

  Sam tried calling him by name. The big mastiff mix hopped within a few feet of her. She put out her hand so he could sniff it.

  “There you go,” she cooed, rubbing under his chin. Hansel wagged his tail, and Sam drew him behind the dune. “Somebody’s going to be glad to see you,” she said to the dog.

  “If Linden can get them out of there. Where is he?”

  “We can’t wait any longer,” Sam said. “I’m going in. You stay and give—”

  “They’re guarded all the time. That’s why Linden’s got to handle this. He can walk right up to them.”

  “Maybe he’s shot. And there might not even be guards there. Would you hang around with a roof falling down?”

  “I would if the one over my head was okay, and if the Mayor was going to feed me to his dragons if I left.”

  “It’s not just Linden,” Sam said. “We can’t give those goons time to sober up and get organized. And we need help. If we get those prisoners, they can start fighting.” She glanced at a worn leather satchel packed with pistols already confiscated from guards and marauders whom they killed trying to escape the city. “We’ve got to move while we�
�ve still got the jump on them.”

  Yurgen took her arm. “I’ll go. You—”

  “No. That doesn’t make any sense. You can’t see twenty feet at night. I can do this.”

  “I know you can, but I’m worried. It wasn’t going to be easy for Linden, and he knows these people.”

  “So do we,” she said darkly. She kissed Yurgen’s cheek. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. We’ve got a kid to take care of,” she added, alluding to Cassie.

  Sam headed around the protected side of the dune, lugging the satchel and skirting the deep sand while she could. She planned to advance on the rear of the city, and tried to recall what Linden had said about the layout near the smaller pit.

  Despite the assurances she’d given Yurgen, the mission scared her. The city’s gunmen were merciless. Yet a smile snuck across her face, testament to the prospect of raising a girl again. But the grief-stricken memory of her daughter’s murder intruded quickly, and Sam vowed to never lose another child to the City of Shade—and to fulfill a blood oath that she and Yurgen had sworn years ago.

  The tormentor, a husky guard, seized Linden’s hand before he could grab his gun from his belt, then pressed his own pistol to the bald man’s head.

  “You got a choice,” he said to Linden in the darkness. “You want to die?”

  The Mayor’s emissary let him take the Ruger. A moment later the other man, a lean African guard, lit a torch and the husky guard patted him down, finding a long knife inside his boot.

  “This is a beauty. That real bone?” He ogled the handle. “Human or animal?” Linden didn’t reply. “I can do things with something like this,” the man went on. “I can make you talk.”

  “You better quit now,” Linden said. “You’re going to end up dead if you keep this up. You, too,” he warned the African.

  “He thinks we’re going to die,” the husky guard said to his buddy, who smiled and held the torch close to Linden’s face, which reddened in the firelight. He turned from the heat. The lean guard laughed.

  The tormentor chuckled, too, but humorlessly. “I heard it all: ‘I’m with the good guys.’ Then you said, ‘I’ll get you back to your people.’ ”

  “I was saying those things so the girls would come to me, you idiot. Now give me my weapons and let’s go find them, or the Mayor’s going to have your heads.” He looked at them both.

  “The Mayor? You mean the guy you shoved into the pit? You tried to hide it, but I saw you push his fat ass in there first thing. That’s okay with us, ’cause we’re taking over. But it’s bad for you, ’cause you’re done.”

  “What?” Linden tried to grab his Ruger. The tormentor pistol-whipped him so hard and fast he drove him to his knees.

  “Yeah, you really hung around to help the Mayor,” the husky guard said with only a brief show of breath for his violent efforts. “About as long as I did. Except you took off like you knew exactly what was going to blow, and when it was going to happen.” The tormentor dragged Linden to his feet. “How come you’re so smart?”

  Blood dripped from Linden’s nose and lips, and from a gash high on his cheekbone. “I just ran. Like everybody else. Look, I’m sorry I called you an idiot. The girls must be—”

  “Shut up, idiot. You’re not sorry, you’re scared.” He raised his gun to hit Linden, who tried to pull away. Instead of striking him, however, the tormentor grinned. “See what I mean? Scared. You should be ’cause you’ve been working with them all along. Soon as those bombs went off, with everybody in one fucking place, I knew a spy was setting us up, and I figured it was you. I saw you whispering to that bitch yesterday, and then rubbing yourself and trying to tell me that she spit on you. You think I didn’t check? It was right here.” He flicked Linden’s right arm. “And it was dry as bone. Go ahead,” he said to the African, who jammed the flame onto the spot the tormentor had touched. Linden swore and tried to grab the torch. He failed, and the lean guard stiff-armed his bloody face. Linden whirled on the tormentor.

  “You guys are screwing up bad.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the tormentor said, “or I’ll burn your tongue out of your head.” He shoved Linden toward the Mayor’s office. “Now move.”

  The African raised the torch and looked inquiringly at his buddy, who nodded. The flame landed on Linden’s back. He screamed for the first time.

  “Oh, shit, he’s going to be motherfucking fun,” the black guard said.

  “Just the start.” The tormentor pushed Linden into the office. The emissary scrambled around the table and reached for the unmarked door behind it, but the African kicked him toward a corner.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” the tormentor said. “Now, where are they?” he demanded. “Don’t hold out on me.”

  The black guard advanced on Linden’s left. The tormentor blocked the other way around the table, aiming his pistol conspicuously at Linden’s privates. “Don’t want to kill you—yet.”

  “I don’t know where they are,” Linden said haltingly, gripping his arm. His eyes darted from one man to the other. “I swear it.”

  “Go ahead,” the tormentor said to his cohort.

  “No!” Linden yelled as the African burned his left arm, forcing him back to the wall bearing the Oval Office carpet with the presidential seal. The guard jammed the flame into the emissary’s belly, but held it there only briefly before the tormentor waved him off. Linden grabbed the carpet to hold himself up.

  “The girls?” the tormentor said.

  “I don’t know. I came to get—”

  The tormentor shook his head, and the African thrust the flame into Linden’s face. He screamed and jerked away, and tried to hurl himself across the table. The tormentor shot him in both legs at close range, and his friend burned Linden’s back all the way down to his buttocks, then dragged him squirming and shrieking to the floor.

  Linden, still bellowing, tried to stand. His legs, bleeding from bullet wounds, buckled. Smoke rose from his clothes. He grabbed the carpet, tearing it loose. The seal side landed on him.

  “ ‘I don’t know’ is the wrong answer.” The tormentor spoke as if none of this was happening, then nodded at the African. “Have at it.”

  Linden’s screams never stopped, but they faltered horribly.

  When the African stepped away, the torch blazed brighter, with bits of flaming carpet, pants, and skin falling from it. The air reeked from burning flesh and fabric.

  “He alive?” the tormentor asked.

  “Yeah,” the guard laughed, “but he don’t want to be.”

  “I think it’s time I had a talk with you,” the tormentor said to Linden, who didn’t appear capable of responding.

  He grabbed the emissary’s chin, pulled it from his scalded neck, and probed the puffy burnt tissue with the tip of Linden’s knife. The brutalized man started to spasm. His eyes rolled and a seizure stiffened the length of him for several seconds. His groans sounded like they came from a wild animal. Then his teeth chattered violently.

  “Looks like you’re cold,” the tormentor said. “We’ve got something for that.”

  Linden’s savaged lips moved.

  “I can’t hear a word you’re saying, but it doesn’t matter, and you know why? ’Cause I know you’re telling the truth. I knew it from the start. You don’t know where they are, but I do ’cause I found the bitches and put them there.”

  He used Linden’s own knife to slice deeply into the man’s neck. Then he dropped his head, leaving him to bleed to death.

  “Let’s go,” he said to his buddy. “Those honeys are waiting.”

  “Hey, I don’t know about that.” The African scratched his head. “If the Mayor makes it, he’s going to be—”

  “Pissed at Linden for fucking over those bitches,” the tormentor interrupted with a laugh. “That’s what he’s going to be. And all the terrible shit he did to them before they died?” he added in mock horror. “But we caught him dead to rights and brought him straight to the office, didn’t we? An
d then he tried to get away, so we had to show him a thing or two, didn’t we?”

  The African’s smile broadened in the torchlight.

  “Besides, the Mayor’s not going to make it, so let’s go. We’ve got virgins, hooch. We’ve even got us a nice bed, so let’s burn it up.”

  X-ray waited beneath the bleachers for more than an hour, astounded that only a handful of men had taken cover under them. The slave figured the booze hadn’t made for much clear thinking when the roof came down. He heard the last of the ones who’d taken shelter run off a few minutes ago.

  Reaching out, he searched the ground for a guard who’d been clobbered in the first minute after the explosions. He came across numerous bricks before he found the man still breathing. His touch raised a moan and a weak plea for help.

  X-ray listened closely in the darkness. Other men moaned, too; but the ones who’d been screaming earlier had quieted or died. Just now a man on the other side of the pit cried out, “Mom,” three times, but then stopped.

  “Help,” the guard pleaded again. X-ray crawled up beside him and placed a hand on his brow. The man might have found this comforting because his moaning eased and he whispered, but so softly the slave could not make out what he’d said. Maybe thanks.

  X-ray removed his hand, picked up a brick, and crushed the guard’s skull with five powerful blows. No remorse, only ragged satisfaction. He would have felt even better if he’d killed the guard who’d gouged out his eye.

  It took only seconds to find the man’s pistol and knife. X-ray checked the ammo by feel. Six bullets. That should do, at least for a start. He slipped the blade into his belt and raised the gun as he headed out of the arena.

  Twice he stumbled over dead men. Both times he found a knife and handgun, and ample ammo.

  After he made it to a hallway, he walked quickly, placing his left hand on the wall to guide him; the right still wielded the murdered guard’s gun. He passed only one man in the hall, a supine Russian wailing and babbling loudly in his strange tongue. X-ray had no beef with him and moved on, finding his way to a narrow stairway that he and other slaves had carved from rock over five months.