by Kevin George
Smiles faded on many faces within the crowd, replaced by looks of confusion and horror. But nobody disagreed or questioned a word he said. Queen Raefaline reached the top of the stairs and hobbled beside him, the cooing baby still snuggling her closely. As Ryo circled behind them to take his defensive position, the king looked at his wife and winked. She gave the slightest nod in return. Edmond hoped she understood that his public condemnation of Oliver was his way of apologizing.
He turned back to the crowd, which hung on his every word. Edmond’s chest swelled, and this was one of the rare moments in his life when he felt the Lord gripping him from within, guiding his words.
“For Oliver’s entire life, all I wanted was to help lead him to the Lord and His teachings, but the boy doubted the Lord and Jonas at every turn,” he continued. “Since then, he has denied One and its guards and its people and our very way of life.”
The crowd gasped. Edmond waited long enough to allow their worried murmurs to spread.
“For this reason, Prince Oliver is no longer a prince, he is no longer the Jonas Heir and he is no longer my son. Furthermore, he is no longer worthy to travel Beyond the Light and no longer worthy to be a part of our city. The Lord blessed us all when He gave us Queen Raefaline, and He blessed us again when He gave me a new child. . . a new Jonas Heir. It is with a full heart and overwhelming pride that I present to you my new son.”
With outstretched arms, King Edmond turned to his wife. The crowd erupted in cheers. Raefaline looked down at the child, hesitating to hand him over. King Edmond smiled and waved her closer. She shuffled a few feet but remained clutching the baby.
“I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened in the past, but things will be different now,” the king whispered to her. When the crowd saw him speaking, they quieted. He turned to them with a great big smile. “I just apologized to the queen for forgetting to ask the most important thing. Queen Raefaline, what have you decided to name the child?”
“I’ve decided to name him after his father,” she said loudly, smiling at the king.
Raefaline finally eased her grip, pulling the baby away from her chest as she unfolded the blanket. When the baby’s face was unwrapped, she turned her body so the king could see. Edmond’s smile faded when he looked at the face of a beautiful baby with dark skin. The king’s top lip curled as he looked into the cold eyes of his wife.
“The child’s name is Ryo!” Queen Raefaline proclaimed.
Edmond backed up, ignoring gasps from the crowd. Too late, he sensed a massive presence behind him. Before he could turn to his lead royal guardsman—before he could issue a single order to seize Ryo, or the queen, or the child—King Edmond Jonas heard the dull thud of spear against flesh, followed immediately by the wet ripping of his silken robe. His head dropped, his eyes seeing the point of Ryo’s spear exploding out of his chest.
In an instant, all strength left the king’s body. The cries and gasps and screams from the crowd faded into the distance. He leaned forward, expecting to collapse down the platform staircase, but somehow remained propped up, even as blackness swept across his vision. Just when Edmond thought he’d never feel anything again, a shot of pain ripped through his chest and his head lolled to one side as he was lifted off the ground. His vision swirled as his view of One’s citizens faded. Distantly, his mind understood that he was being turned, though he could think of nothing else but pain and his inability to take another breath. The last thing he saw was the bright orange glow of the lava pool before he was unceremoniously tossed in, the king’s existence erupting in a ball of flame. . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The overhead lights flickered nonstop. Isaac’s eyes remained closed, but he still saw the flickering through his eyelids. He tried to cover his eyes—to plunge himself into total blackness—but he doubted that would help. If sleep wouldn’t come in this rare moment of total silence in the supply bunker, he knew it would be damn near impossible for him to ever nod off again.
Not that there was total silence in his head. The clanging of metal against concrete still echoed in his mind. He was exhausted, tossing and turning, feeling every lump in his mattress. Unable to take it anymore, he stood up so suddenly that he knocked over other mattresses propped up around his sleeping area. The dull thud of them hitting the concrete floor echoed in the darkness and he regretted losing control of himself.
Isaac stood in place for several minutes, closing his eyes again to listen for any other sounds, specifically footsteps or a voice calling out from the other side of the bunker. When he concentrated, he heard nothing. But as his concentration waned and his mind wandered, the clanging in his mind started anew. He scratched at the side of his head, strands of long hair being pulled out, and pressed his palms against his ears so tightly that the side of his head throbbed.
I can’t live like this any longer. . .
Certain he was the only one awake, Isaac crept down the nearest aisle. Large sections were shrouded in darkness and shadows, so many of the overhead lights having burned out. A part of Isaac told himself to relocate his bed to the darker area so he could finally sleep, but he doubted that would help. Regardless of the how much light there was or wasn’t, the clanging would always be there unless he put a stop to it.
He scampered faster and faster, darting between aisles, missing the corners of shelving units by inches. By the time he tiptoed to a stop at the end of the supply bunker, Isaac wasn’t surprised to find the ramp—and the chipped concrete wall at the top—quiet and empty. He nearly tripped on a small chunk, which skittered across the floor. Anger exploded in his mind and he picked up the broken concrete, wheeling toward the nearest shelf. But he stopped himself from throwing it and closed his eyes, focusing on calming his heartbeat.
Isaac placed the chunk gently on the floor. He climbed to the top of the ramp, where he found divots larger and deeper than he’d realized. Considering the crude tools at Artie’s disposal, his progress was nothing short of amazing. Still, the flickering lights and power surges across the bunker could only mean the solar panels outside were failing. There was no way Artie would finish digging them out in time.
Isaac proceeded to both sides of the bunker’s ramp, searching the corners for any clue about how to access the outside world. He found nothing, not surprising since he and Artie had searched every inch of the bunker countless times. For months, Isaac told himself they must be missing something, but he was out of ideas and couldn’t think for longer than a few minutes before the annoying clanging echoed in the recesses of his mind.
Isaac nearly tripped again, this time over a broken metal pole leaning against the wall, one of Artie’s makeshift digging tools. Isaac picked it up and touched the sharpened end, piercing the skin of his fingertip. His pulse raced and his mind swam, quietly drowning out the clanging. There was only one way to stop the noise, and the thought of finally creating silence—into which he could fall asleep forever, never to wake up—was enough to let him accept the ugliness he’d have to create to gain that silence.
He tiptoed toward the opposite side of the supply bunker. The aisles along that half were little different than the rest of the bunker, but Isaac still felt strange walking among them. He still noticed different shadows being cast by supplies he hadn’t seen for months. Something about this moment didn’t feel right, and when he looked down at the sharpened pole in his grasp, he barely recognized his own hands. Still, he couldn’t look at the pole without thinking of the noise it made. . . without thinking of the hours of torture it had caused him. . .
It wasn’t the pole responsible for the noise. . .
Light snoring interrupted his thoughts, breathing that came from the shadows somewhere in the next aisle. Isaac proceeded slowly, pausing after every step, listening for any change to the rhythmic breathing. He heard none, and soon found himself crossing to the final aisle, approaching a lone mattress hidden in the shadows of a section with broken lighting. Isaac saw the silhouette of a person beneath blankets,
but he still approached carefully, as if this situation might be a setup.
Artie’s eyes remained closed and his only movement was a slight rise and fall of his chest. He appeared so peaceful in his sleep, so weak. Isaac stood over him, glaring down at the man who’d caused him so much anguish and torture over the months, anguish and torture Artie would undoubtedly continue.
Unless I do something about it, Isaac thought, his hands aching from gripping the pole so tightly. He felt such hatred in his soul for Artie, possibly the only feeling he had left, and knew he could end it all—the hatred, the clanging, the torture—with a single swing. . .
Artie slowly pulls away from kissing Emma. . . he can still smell the ghost of her scent. . . he looks upon her a final time as he heads into the tunnel. . . he looks back a moment later to see her silhouette in the distance. . . her voice echoes from far away. . . calling for help. . . pleading for him to stay. . . pleading for him to return. . .
In the back of his mind, Artie realized he was dreaming, but his feeling felt so real, the sense of urgency felt so real. He couldn’t ignore the sense of loss. . . the sense of danger. . .
His eyes snapped open and he sat upright. His sleeping section of the bunker was dark, but the overhead lights flickered a few rows over. He sensed someone nearby and leapt off his mattress, turning in a slow circle. He saw nobody but heard a distant pattering of what sounded like footsteps.
Unless I’m still dreaming. . .
“Isaac?” he whispered into the dark. He waited several seconds for a response but received none. The soft pattering had faded to nothingness, though Artie still squinted to see into the shadowy areas of his aisle.
He lay back down on his mattress and massaged his leg, which still hurt whenever he moved suddenly. He closed his eyes, hoping for a happier dream of Emma, a dream where he finally escaped this prison and made it back to the City Below. But no matter how much his body ached from hours of digging—and no matter how much his mind ached to return to Emma, even if only in a dream—he couldn’t scratch the concern itching at the back of his mind. Eventually, he kept his eyes open and stood up, stretching the soreness out of his muscles before heading back to the ramp to chip away more of the concrete wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Wyatt ran toward the ledge, his legs rubbery from shock and panic. He slowed down before reaching it, uncertain if he wanted to see what had become of Carli. He was ashamed to think about the GPS breaking as well, not to mention his own shortened life expectancy with the army of enemies storming the roof behind him. He didn’t know if they planned to kill him, or torture him, or use him for some sort of experiment; more worrisome was a fate he couldn’t imagine. Knowing he was about to die with Carli’s life on his conscience, he could only think of one fate that seemed appropriate.
I’ll join her. . .
He reached the ledge and climbed atop it as a spear flew by his head, missing him by inches. He didn’t bother glancing back at the enemies, nor did he look down at the street hundreds of feet below. His eyes remained straight ahead, looking at the sky where he’d lived so many years of his life. Wyatt started to lean forward and smiled, the irony not lost on him that so many other people from his HASS had chosen to end their life on a plunge, albeit one from much higher up.
At least my fall won’t be as far as theirs. . .
Before gravity could take over, Wyatt noticed a rush of movement heading up toward him, the sight causing him to recoil and nearly fall back off the ledge. Carli rose above him, but she wasn’t alone. Another person—covered from head to toe in black clothing and a dark helmet—held onto her. Wyatt immediately recalled seeing two flying forms when they’d approached the building. As if on cue, a second flying figure sped toward him, hovering to a stop a few feet in front of Wyatt, offering his hand to the young man. Wyatt heard the echo of a muffled voice within the helmet, but he couldn’t understand a word being said.
Wyatt didn’t know what to do, nor did he know who—or what—these flying forms could be. But while the enemies behind him threw spears in his direction, the figure in front of him was offering a hand of help. Whether that help was genuine or not, Wyatt decided it was the only choice he could make. He reached out and felt a strong hand grasp his.
In an instant, he was jerked up and off the ledge, just as a maniacal scream exploded behind him. Wyatt looked back to see one of the enemies sprinting toward him, not slowing down as he reached the ledge, leaping atop it and pushing off with all his—or her—might, propelling toward Wyatt with outstretched arms. Wyatt lifted his feet—nearly losing his grip on the flying person’s hand in the process—but still felt the enemy’s fingertips graze him before unleashing another scream that quickly faded as he—or she—plunged toward the street.
Wyatt didn’t look down. He reached his other hand for his savior’s waist, wrapping it tightly around, pulling himself up as much as he could. His grip remained tenuous, and he refused to inhale or exhale too deeply for fear of jarring his grip loose. Wyatt braved a glance across the sky to see Carli—both packs still secured—safely in the arms of the other flyer. They flew far from the comm building in a matter of seconds, soon landing on the snowy rooftop of another crumbling building. Without a word of gratitude to his rescuer, Wyatt stumbled across the roof to where Carli had been placed down.
Wyatt looked into her goggles, where her eyes remained wide with shock. He took her by the arm and led her away from the flying figures, who now stood beside one another, their helmeted heads watching Wyatt’s every move.
“Are you okay?” Wyatt asked Carli.
The girl nodded, her eyes never leaving their rescuers. Wyatt turned to the two forms and saw large packs strapped to their backs, not unlike the jetpack Carli wore. Wyatt shifted to the side, trying to get a better look at the packs, finding that they weren’t just similar to Carli’s jetpack but actually identical. He opened his mouth to thank their rescuers, and ask who they were and where they’d come from, but he found his words getting caught in his tightening throat. Something was so familiar about these two people and he watched them turn to each other and nod before reaching for their respective helmets.
Wyatt’s legs gave out and his knees plunged into the snow. He buried his face in his hands, not wanting to look up in case his eyes had been playing tricks on him. Tears streamed down his face and he didn’t suppress his sobs, not even in front of Carli. He muttered three words over and over.
“I knew it. . . I knew it. . .”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bell?” Carli asked breathlessly.
Charlotte and Austin Bell crunched across the snow, lifting their son off his knees, his mother pulling him in a tight embrace, his father wrapping his arms around both of them. Nobody said a word for several minutes, their cries interrupted by the occasional gust of wind. Carli stood frozen in place, unable what to make of the reunion, knowing she should feel happy for Wyatt but still overwhelmed with envy.
“How are you here?” Carli asked when she could no longer remain quiet.
Charlotte Bell pulled away from Wyatt far enough to stare at her son. If she’d heard Carli’s question, she gave no indication. Austin Bell rubbed the snow from his son’s head before turning and staring at Carli. His smile faded once the spark of recognition flashed in his eyes.
“You’re one of the Ellison girls?” Austin asked. Carli’s eyes narrowed and Wyatt’s father’s did the same. “I could be asking how you’re here.”
“I didn’t want to come to the surface on my own,” Wyatt said. “Carli was always kind to me. She tried to stop her father from severing the Comm HASS, but he didn’t listen to her. I built a second jetpack for her and she chose to come along. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“My father thought your family was dead,” Carli said. “We all thought you leapt.”
“We did,” Charlotte said, suddenly unable to look her son in the eye. “But we were wearing our packs. For years we’d expected Stephen Ellison and other HASS leaders
to cut us free, though everyone knew we were the only chance to make contact with survivors on the ground. I suppose we should be grateful your father held off long enough to give us a chance.”
“Us?” Wyatt asked, unable to hide the pain in his voice as he stepped back from his parents. “I don’t recall being part of whatever plans you made to come down here. I thought you leapt. . . I thought you left me. . . well, I suppose you did leave me. . .”
Charlotte reached a hand for her son, but Wyatt recoiled. She tried to press toward him, but her husband took her hand to hold her back.
“Don’t be angry with your mother. I insisted we keep our mission a secret from you. We hoped convincing the others that we’d leapt would make them sympathetic toward the Comm HASS, that they’d keep it afloat for your benefit. We also assumed you’d be questioned by Stephen Ellison; we wanted you to have plausible deniability. Our intention wasn’t to be gone as long as we’ve been, but I also knew you were smart enough to build your own version of the jetpack in our absence,” Austin said.
“We’ve been trying to find a safe place to live down here, but we’ve come up empty so far,” Charlotte said.
“That was you at the other HASSes?” Carli asked.
Charlotte turned to the girl and nodded. “I tried to follow you but lost you in the clouds. You’re quite the flyer.”
“What happened to the people living there?”
“We don’t know,” Austin said. “They were dead long before we found the place. Maybe they died because of the weather; maybe they died at the hands of people from this city. Apparently, more humans survived this world than expected. We wanted to venture farther from here, but we also didn’t want to travel too far from the HASSes.” He turned to his son. “We didn’t want to travel too far from you. When your mother spotted another jetpacker, she knew it had to be you. By the time we located the downed Comm HASS, you were already gone. We found the radios torn apart and feared the worst. We thought. . . maybe the people from this city had. . .”