The Kidnapped Army

by Shiloh White

  72 percent!? She was freaking out over a 'C' grade on a paper, for goodness' sake. But that was Anna. She was a perfectionist, even back in freshman year.

  I threw the paper out again and went to go after Anna and freshman me. I saw them down near the end of the hall, and I ran to catch up with them.

  About halfway down the hall, I was stopped by a locker that was banging at me.

  “Let me out!” it yelled. Almost running past it, I had to stop and turn around to see where it was.

  “What'd you say?” I asked. “Who said that?”

  “Down here!” the locker banged. “Help me!”

  “Wait,” I said. “Chug?”

  No answer. I stifled a laugh.

  “Would you just shut it and help me out of here?” he demanded, banging on the locker some more.

  “Okay, okay. I'm helping!” I reached down and began to fiddle with the lock on the door. Our school had a master code that could unlock all of the lockers. I was one of the lucky few involved in a secret plan to get that code. They changed it at the beginning of my junior year, though, cause it didn't work anymore. But if this was freshman year...

  “Ah!” The lock clicked. The door flew open and Chug sprawled out of the locker, breathing and gasping for air.

  “The lockers have little slits, Chug. It's not like you couldn't breathe.” I told him. What a drama king.

  “That's not...why...I'm panting,” Chug answered. “I showed up stuck in that thing. I've been callin' for help since all those teenagers were last out here, but no one came. And I'm not really cool with small spaces.” I nodded slowly.

  “Well, interesting factoid aside,” I said, “tell me how we got here through the sidewalk, and where exactly here is—cause it doesn't look like the Dust to me—and oh, yeah, why there's another me in here!” I pointed down the hallway at the freshman version of me and my best friend. My—err, her arm was around Anna's shoulder as they walked outside.

  Suddenly, I remembered this day. This did happen in freshman year. It was the only day I cut class.

  I wanted to tag along. See it for myself. Maybe live it again.

  “Whoa, Lucy.” I felt Chug's hand on my wrist.

  I looked down, and saw that I'd already taken a good five or six steps from where I was standing a minute ago.

  “How did I-” I stammered.

  “We're in a Depression Zone,” Chug said. “One that's obviously got you in it."

  “Well it's not mine,” I said. “We got those taken care of the last time I was here. Well...except for the last one, but this place doesn't exactly scream 'schizo' to me."

  “Oh, yeah, trust me; this place isn't yours.” Chug chuckled.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I demanded. “Have you been there?"

  Chug suddenly grew real interested in the locker he'd just been stuffed in.

  “Wait, have you really?” I asked. Chug shrugged.

  “It's called Zone-Hopping.” he explained. “Mr. Gordon's been teaching me. It's how we got here, too. Not 'through the sidewalk'. Also, it was Mr. Reggie's idea to get your attention that way."

  I wasn't sure how I expected to feel about it. I didn't really even want to believe it really happened. I felt scared and disgusted, and naked. They were in my head. This kid was in my head.

  “So...” I started to say, “What did you see?"

  “Lucy, we don't have time for questions. What you do need to know is that we're still technically on Topside. We need to go deeper to get to the Dust, and Mr. Reggie."

  I wanted to fight him to try to get some kind of answer. Then another question came up: If Chug had seen mine, then whose Depression Zone was this?

  I turned to throw that one at him, but the school bell rang and Chug didn't let me stick around long enough to get a word in. Just as students began pouring through into the hallways of the school, Chug grabbed my arm and ran straight into the floor, sucking me in with him.

  ✽✽✽

  The journey felt way weirder, and way more intense the second time. I didn't cough up a lung, but it felt like I'd been thrown around like a rag-doll and then sucked through a straw. I figured we arrived by the moment I felt the air get shoved out of my lungs thanks to the hard ground underneath my back.

  Although, I wasn't completely sure if we did arrive anywhere, because everywhere I looked was black. Darkness as far as my eyes could see, or rather, couldn't see. I held my hand up in front of my face—still no luck.

  “Chug, are you there?” I asked. I reached out and felt around me, trying not to move too much in case I got lost. But then, I had no clue where I was in the first place, so didn't getting lost happen the second I arrived? But then the original question returned: if we did arrive, where were we?

  “Over here, Lucy!” Chug's voice echoed behind me. I wheeled around and saw something I hadn't noticed before, but forgot how much I loved: light. It was the only light in the whole place, stemming from a dim gray streetlight. Chug stood near the light; close enough for me to see him waving his hand at me. I ran over to him, eager for answers.

  “I don't remember this area of De Mentoria.” I said as I reached him.

  “That's cause we're not there yet,” Chug said.

  “Then where are we now?” I asked.

  Chug was silent for a moment. Then he simply answered with “I don't know...” He glanced at me a moment later, and all I could give him was a look of confusion. And maybe fear. Just maybe.

  “But I mean, uh, we're definitely in the Dust this time,” he stammered. “I know that much. I felt it during the last jump.” I wondered if what he felt was when I wanted to throw up and then we got stretched as long as spaghetti, because if so, I felt that too.

  “In any case,” I said. “I want to get out of here. It's creepy, even for Dust standards."

  “Watch it,” Chug snapped. “The Dust is my home, remember?"

  “You have a creepy home, kid.” I chuckled childishly.

  “Whatever. Either way, I need a second to catch my breath. Zone-Hopping more than one person is not something I do every day."

  “Let's go wait under the streetlight, then,” I suggested. As we walked toward it, I put the DPHQ hoodie on. Just as I was getting my head through the hole, Chug stopped walking and put his hand out to stop me too.

  “Wait...look.” he said warily.

  “What?” I asked. “I don't see anything."

  “Look there, under the light,” Chug whispered. I looked again and squinted my eyes."And keep your voice down,” he added. I looked around under the light, and after a moment, I saw it. The light and the air around the streetlight started to bend and warp and look all kinds of strange. Then, all of a sudden, a man appeared out of thin air and landed with a thud.

  “Oh, that's just...just fantastic.” Chug said, no concern for whispering now. I only caught a glimpse of the guy, but Chug must have known him somehow, due to his answer.

  “Who is that guy?” I asked.

  “Walk and talk—away from him,” Chug said, turning his back on the strange man. I didn't like the idea of not lookin' at this guy or keeping him at my back-side, but Chug didn't stop and turn to look back, getting sucked in deeper by the darkness around us. I caught up to him before he disappeared from my vision. “Anyway,” he started to say, “that man is—"

  “I knew I'd find you here, brat!” He yelled in a deep, scraggly voice that stopped me in my tracks. Somewhere next to me, I heard Chug's feet shuffle to a stop too.

  “Now then,” he continued, “I'm glad to say you're under violence-approved arrest for the kidnapping and possible murder of Officer Pascal Dart.”

  Chug let out a blur of colorful obscenities. I forgot that as young as Chug was, he did grow up on some Dust equivalent of “the streets” and had good potential for a full-time sewer mouth.

  “How does he know about Dart?” I whispered. “And did he say murder?"

  “One question at a time,” Chug said, lowering his voice. “To answ
er your earlier one, this guy's name is Bartholomew Stark, and he's from the Depression Force. He's also the goon who's been chasing me around the entire Dust for the past two days. Each time, I've just barely been able to escape. However, with all the Zone-Hopping we just did, my body's still too tired to take us both. I need a few more minutes to rest. In the meantime, we need to get as far from him as possible until them."

  “Why don't I hold him off until you can Zone-Hop again?” I asked. “That's not a good idea, Lucy,” Chug protested. “You don't know this guy like I do. We need to get away. He can't see us out here—"

  “But I can hear you, kid,” Stark growled from the streetlight. “The girl's got a better idea than you, coward. You ain't gettin' away. We might as well have some fun before I take you to the grave—I mean, uh, into custody.”

  Real discreet, dude, I thought.

  I'd never seen him around the Depression Force before, but something told me that wasn't where he bothered to spend his free time. Something also told me he wasn't exactly concerned with taking us into custody: still standing under the dim glow of the streetlight above him, he had brandished a jagged knife about the size of my entire forearm.

  My heart skipped a beat. We were really going to have to fight this guy. I wavered for a second, and then I was overcome with a surge of adrenaline. I'd finally get to use my paint weapons again!

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out my yellow paintbrush, just itching to use it. Chug grabbed my arm.

  “Lucy, wait—” I pulled it back, almost pulling him with me.

  “Chug, this guy's serious,” I said.

  “He's also seriously strong. And scary. Even for me.” I rolled my eyes, which he probably couldn't see in the dark.

  “So I'm gonna need some help,” I told him. “Are you in or not?"

  I didn't wait for his answer. I ran back over to the streetlight, standing a little ways away from Stark.

  Suddenly, this guy was a lot more intimidating than when he was pretty far away. His face looked like it was permanently in a scowl, like someone had taken a fork and tried to twist his face around it like spaghetti.

  He had long wild brown hair, which looked pale in the light, and black eyes that stared at me hungrily. He wore an overcoat that stretched from his shoulders all the way to his ankles. And underneath was the standard Depression Force uniform and gear, although it was in tatters compared to the uniforms I'd seen my friends wear, complete with a communicator on his chest that had a cord spiraling up to his ear. Also, right next to it, the gold 'DFO' letters on his uniform. Only then I noticed two more letters underneath:

  TF.

  TF? What the heck did that mean? The Feared? The Finder? Tooth Fairy? None of those quite had a ring to it if I added “Bartholomew” into the mix.

  “Where's the coward?” he growled. He threw the knife up and caught the handle in his left hand, causing me to flinch.

  “You, uh, should focus on the enemy in front of you,” I said, trying to sound intimidating. I gripped my paintbrush, releasing it from the canister, and made a whipping motion with it at the ground. The paint on the end of the brush stretched down until it was full-length; the size of a lion-tamers' whip.

  Stark's eyes lit up. He took the blunt side of the knife and scratched under his chin with it. “Maybe you're right, girly,” he said slowly. “I've heard about you. Just last week you stopped that crazy Zone Holder from freeing Disorder with that power.”

  Last week?

  Right. The time here was seven times slower. What was in total eight weeks for me had only been a little over a week for the Dust.

  “And yet,” he continued, “here you are now, raising your weapon to an Officer. Not to mention, I find you in company with that murderous coward. There can only be one reason for that: you're working with the enemy.”

  “No, wait, that's not what's going on here.” I tried to explain. But he just laughed. Then he grabbed his comm and spoke into it.

  “HQ?” he growled. “We have a code one-one-nine-three. I repeat, that's a rogue Topsider spotted in the Dust."

  A second later, I heard the garbled response from his ear piece and Stark grinned at me with a gleam in his eye. It wasn't hunger. Desire, maybe? No, it was more...primal than that.

  Bloodlust. That was it.

  “It's your lucky day,” he said happily, showing teeth from cheek to cheek.

  “Why?” I clenched my paintbrush, not budging from where I stood. I didn't want this guy to know just how intimidated I was becoming.

  “You wanted me to focus on the enemy in front of me, and I did,” he explained. “Now you've been branded a traitorous fugitive by the Depression Force. And as much as I don't like killing people with power like you...” he shrugged. “At least it'll be quick."

  12. Whodunit? The Butler, of Course!

  At least it'll be quick.

  His words froze my feet to the black ground underneath me. Nothing I'd faced up until now matched up at all. Every danger and threat was still there to kill me, but that thought had been in the back of my mind to saving Chloe. Now, standing here in the almost-darkness of this empty Depression Zone, across from this kill-crazed man, I felt small and helpless. Most of all, I was afraid. My grip on my paintbrush faltered.

  Suddenly, Stark was moving toward me at a speed that turned his words into an understatement. In a second he'd be on top of me, and I hadn't budged an inch. I wasn’t able to raise my just an inch paintbrush to counter. I stayed stuck in place, knowing in a second I'd feel the cold and sharp—and sadly, familiar—sensation of a tip of a knife rushing into my chest.

  BANG!

  The sound of a gunshot brought me back to my senses. It must have been Chug. Last November, I'd almost been shot with the same pistol. Only they were special bullets designed to shoot your psyche and drive you insane. I hoped these were the same ones and Chug wasn't about to actually be branded a murderer.

  But it was irrelevant. Stark skidded to a stop just a few feet in front of me and used his knife to cut the bullet.

  “He can deflect bullets?!” Chug yelled, over to my right. “That was meant to buy us a LOT more time.” It might not have been the best time, but I smiled a little, knowing I wasn't fighting alone anymore.

  Stark twisted his knife in his hand and kept closing the distance between us. I gripped my brush hard and flung my paint whip at him. As it came at him, he swung the flat of his knife at it and smacked it aside, splattering paint all over our dimly lit fighting grounds. Then he kept running at me, and I held nothing to defend myself with than what was a simple paintbrush again.

  Chug shouted and dashed at Stark to stop him, but Stark smacked him down just as easily as my paint. He stopped running at me to brood over Chug for a moment. “A noble last move,” he said, “but the noble ones always die.” Then he spat on the ground next to Chug. Next, he walked over to me, shaking his head.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said. “You know, HQ really doesn't like it when Topsiders switch sides, actin' like they own the Dust.” He glanced down at my jacket, and pointed his knife right at the 'DPHQ' on the front. “And in their own garb, no less. That's heartless.”

  Then instead of pushing the knife inward, he took a step back, and rested his face in the palm of his hand.

  “You know, little girls aren't my favorite target, so I hoped you'd put up more of a fight.” Then with lightning speed he grabbed my wrist, keeping me from replenishing paint for my whip. With his other hand, he began to thrust the knife into my chest.

  I closed my eyes, not wanting to see it. The craziest part, I found, was that as fast as he moved the knife, I had time for plenty of thoughts: how I didn't want to die; how no one would know where I was; how my life would end here, in the company of a dim streetlight and a thirteen-year-old homeless kid. I took in all those thoughts as I awaited my fate.

  Thankfully, my fate decided not to get me stabbed.

  Instead I heard an “OOF!” and the sound of metal clattering to
the ground. I opened my eyes; on the ground lay Bartholomew Stark, unconscious. Above him stood a tall man, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a black vest, complete with black clothes. I recognized him as Gordon, Mr. Reggie's butler.

  I started to ask what he was doing here, but he made a shushing sound to quiet me. Then he grabbed Chug and lifted him into his arm. With his free arm, he grabbed my hand.

  “Don't let go,” he said in a deep-voiced British accent.

  I nodded at him to show that I understood. Then, I felt his weight pulling us forward. Gordon and I fell forward, Chug in his arm. When we reached the ground, we didn't hit it. Instead, we passed through into more darkness and for the third time that day, I felt like I was being stretched into a bowl of noodles.

  ✽✽✽

  When the feeling stopped, the darkness around me disappeared like a curtain being drawn back. Behind all the darkness, I saw an old beat-up street beneath my shoes. Down the way from where I stood, it looked like the street got a little better, with streetlights and a few people going here and there. But for where we stood, the street carried buildings on either side that all had signs that said “Out of Business,” or “Closed for Safety Reasons,” or things like that.

  “Where are we?” I asked Gordon.

  “De Mentoria,” he answered promptly. I shook my head at him.

  “We've been trying to get there all day with no luck, so that would be awesome.” I told him. “But, I have a feeling that you didn't quite plan to land here—because here, is not De Mentoria.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Mr. Gordon said politely. “I'm sure you've noticed each part of this place doesn't exactly match up with itself?"

  I nodded slowly, pulling out the memory. The last time I was here, I remembered being chased from a street that resembled Las Vegas through busted up apartments and tall buildings that made me think of places like Manhattan. And neither looked like the beautiful old-fashioned stone and brick bridge that served as the entrance. “Yeah,” I said, “what's up with that?"