by M. Lorrox
Thinking of my loved ones.
Hold on to your butts.
“Put on your war paint!”
—Fall Out Boy
A samurai warrior standing in silhouette on the keep’s wall points out toward the setting sun; he points past the perimeter wall, past the moat, past the outlying fields of charred earth, and past the forest yet beyond. “There!”
The commander beside him strains to see the dark specks in the distance—barely visible against the day’s dying light. He lifts his digital binoculars and discovers a team of three badass warriors dressed in black armor racing across the clearing and into the forest. He can just make out the identity of their leader—Eddy, his medium-length black hair contrasting against his light skin—before the group disappears from his view. He curses as he lowers his binoculars back to his red-armor’s breastplate. He shouts orders to the archers below, and a volley of thousands of flaming arrows fly into the old forest.
Eddy sprints through a burning gauntlet. Branches and trees fall as he dodges the flaming arrows that rain down. A tree crashes in front of him and bursts into embers. He jumps and lands alongside his party members, a huge knight and a sleek ninja.
A flash of light gleaming off the warriors catches the commander’s eye through the binoculars. He’s sweating as he drops the binoculars and lights his arrow. As the flame engulfs the tip, it lights his face.
Eddy notices this from the forest below. While jumping over a ditch, he slings his bow forward, threads an arrow, and lets it fly before he lands.
The commander releases his arrow and breathes a brief sigh of relief. At the bottom of his breath, his left eye is pierced by Eddy’s arrow. He drops to the ground as his arrow lands in the fuel-filled moat.
The moat explodes into a huge wall of fire, fifty feet tall. The pupils in Eddy’s bright-green eyes shrink from the blast’s light, but he doesn’t flinch. He and his team emerge from the edge of the forest into the charred field and run straight toward the great flame wall.
On the inside of the burning moat, and outside of the perimeter wall, samurai in red armor take up position and draw their weapons. They are fearless, determined, and ready. Behind the thick stone walls of the castle they guard, a group of eight elite warriors hurry to protect their lord while he escapes.
Eddy grimaces and pushes harder, then lets out a war cry as he and his party leap into the air, and into the flames.
In slow motion, they spin alongside curling wisps of fire. They somersault, twist, and barrel roll through the air. The short black cotton that ties their armor into place spins away from them and teases the flames.
The keep’s lord shouts orders to his elite guardians who carry his treasure. As they hurry ahead, he steals one last look over his shoulder toward the battle.
Still spinning in the air, Eddy takes a calm breath. He studies the warriors that await his landing. In unison, he, the knight, and the ninja all draw their weapons.
The red-armored samurai below dig the balls of their feet into the ground and lift off of their heels, waiting.
The ninja launches an attack and lands among the falling samurai struck by her darts. The knight swings his heavy staff down hard onto the head of a samurai, and he launches himself behind the group awaiting him. He twists before his feet touch earth—stretching his staff out with his spin—and crushes through the skulls of the other samurai still unlucky to have heads.
Eddy lands in the middle of ten sets of red armor, drops straight to the ground, and takes out the samurai’s legs with his twin swords. He stands as they fall, then runs toward the next ten.
The three fight alongside one another. The red armor of their enemies grows shiny with spilled blood as suddenly-lifeless bodies cascade to the ground in their wake. They rush the castle and jump…
They land in front of the lord and his elites—Eddy blocking the lord’s path, the knight and the ninja flanking him. He lifts his eyes to the fleeing cowards as he smiles. “Leave with your lives, or stay and lose them.”
The lord recoils to the chest his men were carrying. “Kill them!” The guardians all rush forward; their spears, swords, and axes all expertly trained toward Eddy.
The ninja leaps, throwing darts that cut through the spearmen’s necks. The knight swings his great staff and cleaves straight through the armor of the swordsmen. In a spinning flurry of steel, Eddy launches toward the axmen and drops their heads to the ground before their bodies fall.
The lord feigns surrender, then rushes Eddy with a dagger.
Eddy cuts him down, then catches the dagger as it rolls out of the lord’s warm, dead hands. He looks at the blade’s craftsmanship. “Not too shabby.”
The warriors grab the chest and rush it out of the keep. When they reach a secluded glade, they pause and set down their bounty. The knight smashes the lock and opens the lid. A soft green light washes out and onto their faces. “Eddy, you’ve recovered our most sacred treasure, the legendary weapon, the…uh…what’s it called?”
Eddy rubs his chin. Death Saber? No. Soul Reaper? Hmm. Destiny’s Blade of Oblivion? Blood Fang? Chaos Staff? Shadow Slayer?
“Eddy, what are your thoughts? Umm, hello? Eddy!”
He shakes himself from his fantasy and looks blankly at his English teacher. His earbuds sit hidden in his collar, still playing the song, “The Phoenix”, loud enough for only him to hear. He clears his throat. “Can you be more specific?”
Mr. Bennet shakes his head. “The class—” he motions to the others who are all now staring at Eddy “—was just discussing how Winston and Julia changed through their ordeal in the Ministry of Love. You know, in that book we’ve been reading together?”
Eddy nods. “Yeah, 1984. I know, but what’s your question?”
Mr. Bennet scowls and folds his arms across his padded chest. “Join in, or get out. You were paying attention, weren’t you?”
Eddy licks his lips and takes a breath. “I think this book is dumb. I’m pretty fed up with both of these characters and this whole book. I mean, they were faced with the classic prisoner’s dilemma, and as far as we can tell, they followed through to Nash equilibrium, but anyone that has studied game theory would have known better. Surely with their other precautions against Big Brother, they would have discussed this and formed a plan to cooperate. So I agree with C. S. Lewis in his review of the book that the characters lack credibility, and I think he actually went light in his critique of the book.” He tosses a hand in the air and shakes his head. “It stinks.”
Mr. Bennet uncrosses his arms and blinks. “Right…well, thanks for your thoughts, Eddy.”
“No problem.”
Charlie works in his office with the lights off. The sunlight adds a soft warmth to the room as it glows through the closed blinds. Every few minutes a brief, bright flash passes across the window. Each time one does, it’s a gleaming reminder from the parking lot just outside that it’s after lunch on a Friday, so it’s pretty much fair game to ditch work for the weekend.
Another flash of bright light passes by. He tries to ignore it as he tweaks a phrase at the end of the document he’s working on. “That should do it.” He sits up and scrolls to the top, then rereads the title: Historic Trends in Cyclical Mountain Precipitation. He saves it and turns off his monitor.
Suddenly, a swift shadow engulfs his window, and Charlie looks up. Someone outside must be running. He pulls open a gap in the blinds and squints into the light, but he can’t see who just bolted past his window.
It’s bright out there. He looks across the lot to a patch of trees. Oh, nice. A little breeze. Looks like another beautiful day—that wants to kill me.
He’s a robust man with bro
wn hair and a square face that’s currently scowling. He’s well dressed in a button-down tucked into a dark pair of jeans. His leather boots are old and worn, but they are hard-shined with care.
The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts in it, pulling back from the window.
His office is small and tidy, with a few artifacts here and there of other cultures on his desk. He has a silly mini samurai sword letter opener next to a very old mug that’s holding some pens. In the gap below his monitor is a little iron ball, sitting on mat of woven cloth stained deep crimson. Behind the mouse pad and toward the back of his desk, sits one of those incredibly wasteful desk calendars where you tear off one sheet each day.
Every New Year’s he gets one from the director. Every year he complains about the waste, and every year the director responds with a joke about global warming. In past years, Charlie had refused to laugh. This year the world had bigger problems, and for the first time the joke was actually funny. He laughed.
Glancing at the calendar, he smiles and tears a sheet off. He’s started a routine where at the end of each day, he uses that day’s page to fold origami. He leaves the origami on his desk while he’s away, and it greets him peacefully the next time he comes into work. Yesterday, he folded a horse.
The calendar always uses a special colored sheet of paper on Fridays, and today’s paper is silver. He passes the delicate paper back and forth between his strong, thick fingers a few times before deciding. Dragon.
He folds a traditional dragon pattern origami with great skill, then sets it on his keyboard, leaning up against the space bar.
Besides his desk, which is orderly and neat, his office is sparse. Only one item decorates the walls: a family portrait hanging to the side of his monitor. He stands in the back of the group with a slightly smaller waistline than what he has today. He stands up straight, next to his taller wife. The two of them have one arm around the other, while their opposite arms are draped on their children: a skinny teenage boy with black hair, and a young girl with blond hair. The boy holds a small dog in his arms, a Wire Fox Terrier.
They look very happy. Everyone is smiling, and they all have vibrant green eyes. Well, the dog’s eyes are hidden behind its fur, but the people in the picture have the most brilliant eyes. One might think the photographer went a little heavy-handed on retouching them in the computer. That is, unless you saw their eyes for yourself.
The picture doesn’t do them justice.
Charlie pulls his phone from his bag and sends a text to his son.
Leaving early, want a ride?
Charlie already knows the answer he’ll get, but he asks anyway. He grabs his soft-sided leather briefcase from the side of his desk and walks to the corner where he has a mini fridge next to the garbage and recycling bins. He reaches inside the fridge and pulls out a bottle of what looks like typical tomato juice.
The fridge is filled with similar bottles. All of them have a different pattern around their neck, but they all have the same logo on their labels: .
He pauses for a second to read the label of the bottle he chose. “Ooooh, chipotle.” He smiles and walks out, shutting the door behind him.
There are a handful of cars scattered across the lot, and they all look a little beat up with dents and dings. Even the fancy cars are a little messed up. A couple of the trucks have metal pipes welded together and mounted to the front frame of the vehicle, protecting the grill.
People used to call those pipes “deer bouncers.”
Charlie looks out at the parking lot through the glass of the building’s side door. He holds his hand out into the stream of sunlight to feel the heat. With every second outside in the sun, he knows that millions of UVA and UVB wavelength photons are penetrating his skin—penetrating his cells—and if too much radiation hits a cell’s nucleus, it wreaks havoc on that cell’s DNA. The malformed DNA would cause a buildup of toxic chemicals in his cells, and if those cells with damaged DNA reproduce without being targeted and destroyed, then that DNA gets copied and the damage just builds up. Too much damage and -beeeeeeeeeep- no more Charlie.
The door he is standing behind has a UVA-blocking filter applied to the glass. It’s a common misconception that glass blocks all wavelengths of UV radiation. It would be wonderful if it did, or if companies routinely applied the filters for the general health of the human race during manufacturing, but that’s not how the world works. Charlie had to buy and put the film on the window himself. Very few companies would spend the additional money for the health of their occupants, but there are a few companies that would.
Charlie glances up to the cloudless sky and grimaces. He looks to his side to an assembly of umbrella stands. Each holds a couple of baseball bats, while one stand holds a lonely umbrella.
He flicks open a pair of large dark sunglasses, puts them on, then grabs his umbrella. Time to face the music. He takes a swig of his drink, recaps the bottle, then heads outside, whistling. For such a stocky man, his movement is almost effortless with a dance in his step this Friday afternoon. He whistles and taps a rhythm with his ring—a shiny black metal band—banging against the metal shaft of the umbrella.
He feels the breeze and takes a deep breath—it stinks. He frowns. Last week it smelled better. The mountain magnolias were blooming, and it was lovely. This week it smells like rotting garbage. Not a good sign.
He’s parked way in the back of the lot, and he strolls to his little gas saver. He starts whistling again. He weaves between the few remaining cars in the lot, keeping a healthy distance between himself and every car until he approaches his own.
He walks a circle around it, pointing at it with his umbrella as he whistles. After a loop around, he gets in.
-Beeeeepdadeeeep- Charlie leans his umbrella against the car and checks his phone. He has a text from Eddy.
No thanks pops
Charlie shakes his head. Didn’t think so.
Eddy starts a new playlist and slides his phone back into his pocket. The earbuds still sit at his collar. He sits and laughs with a bunch of other kids on a short ledge under a tree, outside the steps leading away from the front entrance of the high school. He’s fifteen, and he’s close to finishing the ninth grade, but he carries himself with the confidence of a much older kid. He wears wayfarer-style sunglasses with metallic red frames, a leather sport-bike jacket, tight black jeans, and red All Stars. Real retro.
He’s certainly not shy; an onlooker could think he was a cocky little bastard. They wouldn’t guess that he was one of those weird kids that was homeschooled—until about two years ago, anyway.
But everyone at this school knows him, and he knows all of them. Everyone knows everybody else when you go to school in a small town. It seems like all the kids are friends, and they all seem to be happy. Every once in a while, someone is escorted out crying or screaming, but on most days the mood is light.
All the heavy security allows that lightness, in a perverse sort of way. The school’s main building is probably the town’s best-defended asset, with security guards patrolling the perimeter with shotguns and German Shepherds. It helps that this school building is in the center of town, so there are also plenty of patrol cars making their rounds on the surrounding streets. Some of the other school facilities that were spread across town have closed down, centralizing all students and activities here.
The plan to collect all the students together worked; parents feel at ease with their children at the main building. It gives the town a sense of security. And having all the kids together helps to make it okay for them to laugh and to be happy. They’re safe when they’re at school. Everywhere else—pretty much—can be a nightmare, but at least not here.
Joe and Jess Kingston are chatting with each other. Joe is a few months younger than Eddy, but they’re in the same grade, while Jess is a year older than both and is finishing tenth. Joe pokes his sister and motions to Eddy. She nods and jerks her head forward, grabbing Eddy’s attention. “Hey, are you down for practice t
omorrow?”
“Yeah, although I think it’s Tomo here that needs the most practice.” Eddy punches Tomas in the shoulder, hard enough to remind Tomas how strong he is, but just light enough to still be friendly—barely. Eddy smiles and looks back at Jess. “Only if Tomas can come.”
“Oh sure. Of course,” Joe says without hesitation.
Jess shoots her brother a scornful look, then relaxes. “Well, I suppose…”
Tomas tries to hide his nerves. He’s had a crush on Jess for years, and Eddy knows it. Niño grosero… Tomas sighs. Well, he is a good friend who just happens to be an ass sometimes.
The first day Eddy started at the public school with the others, Tomas made an effort to talk and joke with him, and they’ve been friends ever since. It took Eddy only a week to give Tomas the nickname—which he decided to adopt—but Eddy challenges him in ways that make him uncomfortable, like right now with Jess.
Even though he feels awkward, Tomas thrills at the thought of spending time outside of school with her.
Eddy feels the tension he’s causing, but he doesn’t mind. He knows that Jess is a little shy around Tomas, but he thinks they’re a good match. He thinks Tomas needs a strong lead, and he knows Jess is strong.
The breeze blows Eddy’s hair into his face. He brushes it to the side. “Jess, what time are you all meeting up?”
“We’ll be on the hill at eleven. Bring something to drink.”
“Blue-flavored soda. Check.” Eddy lowers his sunglasses just enough to let a quick wink slip past.
The group chuckles.
“Yeah. Okay.” Jess rolls her eyes.
More students are leaving the school. June Tubman walks out with some friends who are laughing about a story she’s telling. Although she dresses more plainly than the other eighth-grade girls walking with her, she has a very lively spirit and quick wit.
Even as a young girl, others could tell she was special; the first time she met her grandfather on the reservation, he told her the wolf spirit runs with her. She’s wearing the brown-and-red beaded necklace that he gave her that day. She loves it.