The Mountain

by Kevin George

  But that’s not what He will think. He will be forever grateful for bringing Him back to our world, Quentin told himself, his heart pumping faster at the thought. I’ll become His most trusted ally in The Mountain. . . and maybe beyond. He will listen to what I think we should do with the new Blast instead of doing what the Board wants with it. . .

  Quentin continued rushing down the hall, his hooked feet clumsier than they’d been for a long time. He spotted movement ahead and fought to suppress a squawk rising in the back of his throat. When he realized it was only a pair of human guards, Quentin’s pulse settled, though he didn’t exactly like how the two men rushed toward him.

  Attack them, a part of his mind told him, though it appalled him to think this way.

  The sad truth was he no longer knew who he could trust. He was supposed to be representing these very human guards—his fellow brethren—while on the Board. But he knew it wouldn’t take long for Ms. Van Horn and the others to figure out what he planned to do, and they might try to send anyone to stop him. If Quentin hadn’t needed the young scientist to produce more Aviary Blast one day, he might’ve killed him the moment he saw that the newest version had worked.

  “Quentin,” one of the guards called out. “Has the Board figured out everything happening yet?”

  The two guards wore matching expressions of worry and fear. Quentin shrugged and continued past them, hoping they’d get the message and leave him alone. They didn’t.

  “I hear it’s chaos in the upper level,” the other guard said, scurrying to keep pace with Quentin. “And I heard Walda Lamb didn’t make it.”

  “Didn’t make it?” Quentin asked, genuinely surprised.

  The guard shook his head. “It was Love and two other flyers that infiltrated The Mountain.”

  “Not to mention the people that appeared in the hangar and those that showed up on the ground,” the other guard said. “Something major is happening and nobody knows what it is.”

  Quentin stopped, the brow beneath his feathers furrowing. He had known Walda Lamb for years. After his ascension from lead guard to member of the Board, he’d hand-selected Walda to take his place, passing over the legacy pick of Damon Moretti and the more popular pick of likeable Elias Kim. Walda had maintained a good balance of serving her people and the Board’s interests alike, all while keeping Quentin fully informed about the problems and whispers of The Mountain’s human population. Part of him had wondered if their bond might’ve grown stronger one day, especially when the Descendant’s version of Aviary Blast was ready to be distributed to those worthiest. . .

  Quentin shook his head, pushing away the weakness of human empathy threatening to distract him. He stomped away, his feet clicking on the rocky floor, annoyed when the two guards rushed to keep up.

  “I don’t know what’s happening either,” Quentin muttered. “I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Matters more important than maintaining order and control now that Walda’s dead?” asked one of the guards.

  Quentin stopped and turned toward the guard, his sharpened mouth stopping inches short of the man’s face. The guard recoiled, bumping into his partner.

  “That’s why we have a chain of command,” Quentin growled. “Your questions should go to your new leader.”

  “But our second in command has never exactly been—”

  Quentin squawked, his feathers bristling as instinct urged him to attack. The two guards finally realized to back off, scurrying down the hallway without another word. Quentin continued on his trek, relieved to be left alone. But he knew his lack of self-control could prove damning. He’d already messed up by sending the scientist to the Board, and now he risked word spreading among the guards about his mental breakdown.

  What if the humans figure out what I’m planning? Would they try to stop me like the Board would? Or would they try to help me?

  Either way, Quentin wasn’t planning to find out. When he reached the stairwell, he began climbing the steps to the one level that held his fate. He hoped for a quiet, clear path, but the stairwell was filled with echoes of panicked voices, crackling walkie-talkies and pounding footsteps. Quentin passed more guards along the way, certain each one would try to stop him. He always kept one of the syringes ready to jam into himself if anyone tried to stop him. Luckily, The Mountain’s chaos caused most men and women to follow his orders without question as he snapped at them to go help with the intruders.

  By the time he reached the level he needed, the stairwell had quieted, only the distant click of an opening door on another floor interrupting the silence. Quentin hurried through the door, relieved to find the hallway empty inside. Maybe the scientist hasn’t reached the Board yet, he thought. Maybe he got lost. . . or maybe the injected prisoner broke out and caught up to him. That thought prompted him to hold the syringes a bit tighter and rush down the hallway a bit quicker.

  His hooked feet clicked against the floor, the quiet echoes eerie in the surrounding silence. Since joining the Board, Quentin had walked this level numerous times, always pretending to be passing through as the eyes of many guards—guards that undoubtedly reported back to Ms. Van Horn—watched his every step. Ms. Van Horn had never questioned him about it, though, and she’d even opened the door and let him peek into the restricted room—albeit a single time only—as proof that his seat on the Board was legitimate.

  When Quentin rounded the gently-turning corner of the hallway and spotted the door to the restricted room, his heart fluttered. He didn’t spot a single guard, human or Aviary. It was harder than ever to take a deep breath, and he forced himself to slow down as his legs grew increasingly wobbly. Quentin barely heard the sound of an opening door behind him, but he certainly heard it slam shut.

  “The invasion is happening on the highest level and in the hangar!” Quentin called out, his voice echoing. “You need to go there to help!”

  Even as the words left his mouth, he knew there weren’t guards passing through the same doorway he had moments earlier. If he had any doubt about that, it was answered by the deep thwup of what could only be flapping wings. He looked back, unable to see around the corner but somehow sensing exactly who it was.

  “We just want Emma,” a voice echoed in the distance. “We just want the Descendant.”

  Quentin looked toward the sealed door down the hallway in front of him. It had seemed so close moments ago but now appeared miles away. He hurried toward it, the clicking of his feet dangerously loud against the floor. If I can sense her, she can certainly sense me, he knew with sinking certainty. There’s no point pretending not to be here.

  “I don’t have the Descendant,” Quentin called back, his voice higher-pitched than usual. “And she’s not on this level. You have to check several floors down where the labs are.”

  The thwupping grew louder, the sound seeming to fully envelop Quentin.

  “Then take us to her!” yelled the boy prisoner.

  Quentin spent so much time staring behind him that he didn’t realize he’d listed to one side until bumping into a wall. He lost his footing and pitched forward. For a split second, instinct took over and he placed his hand in front of him to break his fall. But he caught a glimpse of the syringes between his fingers and knew he must protect them at all costs. He curled his hand against his side at the last moment and turned his body, his face smashing against the cold, hard floor, jarring his brain and making his vision flash to black.

  He struggled to his hands and knees, where he heard the distant sound of flapping wings. He turned his head slowly, his vision swirling for several seconds before settling, his eyes slowly coming into focus until he saw the woman prisoner flying toward him, her son running to keep pace behind.

  Get up now or you’ll end up as dead as the guards she killed, a voice screamed in the back of Quentin’s mind.

  He stood on wobbly legs and hobbled forward, the door not seeming to get any closer no matter how fast he pushed himself. The flapping grew louder and closer, the
young man’s screams about ‘the Descendant’ doing the same. Quentin flipped the cap off a syringe and pressed it to his arm, wondering if he should inject himself now so he’d have enough time to go through the changes and be ready for a fight. But the door was suddenly upon him, and his eyes cleared enough to see that he still had a significant lead on his would-be attackers.

  Quentin tried the door; not surprisingly, the handle didn’t budge. He turned to the keypad beside it and tried to remember the passcode. He’d watched Ms. Van Horn type in the numbers and he’d memorized the code, mentally reciting it several times a day, every single day since that time, always in preparation for this moment. Now, his mind blanked. It didn’t help that the crazed Aviary and her son were getting closer. When his eyes fell upon the seven, he exhaled deeply, the code rushing back to him. His fingers shaking, he pushed the numbers in order, glancing between the keypad and certain death flying his way. The keypad blinked red the moment he pressed the final button.

  She changed it, Quentin thought, his stomach plummeting. Of course she would’ve changed it.

  He pushed the seven again, this time rushing through the rest of the sequence with a mixture of desperation and resignation that this would be the last thing he’d ever do. As he pushed the last button, he glanced over to see the Aviary bearing down on him, her teeth bared, her clawed hands extended and ready to rip him to shreds. Quentin held up the syringe, knowing he’d waited too long to inject himself, ready to smash them against the floor so nobody could ever become as strong and powerful as—

  A beep interrupted his thoughts, and the resulting click of a disengaged lock filled him with hope. He pulled the handle and a hiss of cold vapor escaped the open doorway. The chill struck Quentin’s face and helped clear his mind of cobwebs. A glance toward the woman showed her spread wings blocking out almost all of the hallway’s lighting. As Quentin scurried through the doorway, the woman squawked loud and long and frustrated.

  Quentin no sooner hurried into the hissing cloud than he felt a sharp pain in his back, claws digging into his skin. Instinct told him to rush forward and get away from her, but he knew that would allow her entrance to the restricted room and would stop him from ever saving Him. Though he nearly slipped on the icy floor, Quentin pushed back with all his might, his head smashing into the woman’s face, her pointy mouth digging painfully against his skull. He squawked in pain nearly as loudly as she did, but Quentin felt her hooked hands releasing him as she stumbled back and out of the room. He spun and slammed the door, the resulting click of the locks the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard.

  Quentin slid to the floor with a sigh. His back ached, but the cold metal door helped numb the worst of the pain. The first deep thudding from the other side of the door made his feathers stand on end; the pounding that followed didn’t make him nearly as nervous. This door isn’t like the room we tried to lock her in, he thought with a smile, though the continuous banging did convince him to snap into action, if only as a reminder that the Board could get in.

  He stood and stared into the cold vapor. His feathers kept him warm enough during the few times he’d set foot in the White Nothingness, but the cold in this room was at a completely different level. He soon started to shiver. His movement caused a few motion-sensing lights to flash on, though none were bright enough to let Quentin see more than a few feet ahead. Still, the room was exactly as he remembered when Ms. Van Horn had allowed him a peek inside. Curiosity made him want to scour every inch to see if the stories he’d heard were true, but he unexpectedly found himself nervous about who else besides Him might end up coming back if he wasn’t careful. . .

  Quentin slipped and slid across the frozen floor, noticing in his periphery the outlines of large chrome pods on either side of him, a few with red glowing panels, most with no glow at all. He only stared at one of them to see the glass of its window completely frosted; he wasn’t sure if that frost made him feel disappointed or relieved.

  By the time he reached the far end of the room and spotted another heavy metallic door, his heart pumped so quickly that he ignored the cold. He is just on the other side, I know it, Quentin thought. Next to the door was a small panel with several glowing buttons. Quentin racked his mind for the combination to the outer door, which he hoped would work on this one as well. But he didn’t get a chance to push a single numbered button because there were no numbered buttons, only a plate with a thin sheet of frost covering the outline of a handprint.

  Quentin wiped the frost away and pressed his palm against the plate. When he felt an unexpected prick against his palm, he yanked his hand back with a screech. He glanced down to see a red dot against his palm, as well as a tiny red smear across the hand plate. The word ‘processing’ appeared, flashing over and over, time passing frustratingly slow. Certain the panel must be broken, Quentin felt a pang of panic at the idea of coming so far only to fail. Then, the panel flashed red and the word ‘rejected’ appeared. He shook his head and squawked angrily. He reached for the hand plate for another test but knew the results would be no different.

  Ms. Van Horn never said He was inside another room, Quentin told himself, turning toward the cold vapor, knowing his only chance to find Him—or find a way into the locked room—might be somewhere out there. He stumbled through the cloudiness until coming upon the first pod. Its panel was blank. When he wiped the thick layer of frost away from the window and peered inside, he saw the reason why. Empty.

  Quentin moved to the next one and then the next, his motivation dying a slow death as he found pod after pod completely abandoned. By the time he encountered one with a panel alight in red, he felt relieved knowing the pods were at least capable of being in working order. When he tried to clear the frost from the panel, he saw its screen was cracked, the words on it illegible; he thought he saw the makings of a name but couldn’t figure them out. Regardless, the red light made it easier to figure out the word ‘Deceased’ at the top of the panel.

  There’s only one way to know if it’s accurate, Quentin thought, turning to the frosted window with a view of the pod’s interior. He began to scrape away the layer of frost, gently at first but making little progress. When he scraped harder, the frost peeled away in clumps, beginning to give him a clearer view of what was inside. A human head, undoubtedly attached to a body, though Quentin could not see that much inside the pod. But is the person still alive?

  Uncertain if he wanted to know the answer, he still kept dragging his sharpened fingers against the frost. When he heard a slight cracking, he was hopeful the last of the frost was about to scratch away. Instead, the glass window collapsed inward, shooting out a plume of steam from inside the pod. Quentin looked into the opening and saw someone staring back, though the eyes of this human were covered in a sheen of ice. Quentin recoiled. He’d seen dead bodies before, but never one frozen to death.

  The pods didn’t work the way the Board thinks they did, he thought.

  Hoping this human had merely suffered the bad luck of a faulty pod, Quentin rushed from one pod to the next, finding most of them empty and the rest with red-glowing panels. Some panels were cracked or frost-damaged, but Quentin was able to read several names and see through a few windows, none of which showed that He was contained in any of them. Quentin’s panic became so overwhelming that he had trouble keeping his bearings in the large room, eventually stumbling upon the same pods he’d already checked.

  He’s not here, Quentin eventually deduced, certain this realization meant that all the risks he’d taken would go for naught. His only decision left was whether to inject himself now and be ready to fight the Board, or hope the scientist hadn’t survived long enough to make it to the—

  Quentin nearly missed the dim splash of color across the room. He squinted to see through the vapor and was almost afraid to walk toward it for fear that the faded greenish glow would disappear altogether. His chest swelled with hope even as he shook his head and tried telling himself there was no way his luck could be so goo
d. He tiptoed forward, weaving in and out of empty or damaged pods, steam coming from his breath as he unleashed a chirp of excitement. The greenish light glowed brighter as he got closer. When he reached the pod, he heard its power system purring smoothly. The glass window was clear of frost and he saw a person inside, a person that appeared to be in a resting state but quite alive. Quentin didn’t need to look at the name on the intact power panel to know he was staring down at Him.

  And now He will look upon my face, and more importantly, what I have brought Him, Quentin thought, glancing down at the syringe. Distantly, he still heard the muffled pounding against the outer door, but he paid it no mind. He pressed the buttons on the control panel, his fingers shaking in anticipation, his pulse racing as the pod door slid open. . .

  Liv crashed into the door with such force that every bone in her body jarred painfully. Each time she struck the heavy metal, the smear of blood on the door became larger. Angry squawking helped deal with the pain, and she hobbled back several feet before launching herself forward again, flapping her great wings with a powerful thwup, slamming herself against the door with reckless abandon. Seeing a small dent spurred her to keep trying, but it wasn’t long before Olly finally caught up, slightly breathless. He hurried between his mother and the door, holding up a hand.

  “You have to stop,” Olly said.

  Liv screeched, shaking her head. “I’ll get inside, I swear to you. Get out of my way.”

  Olly frowned. “Your face is bleeding,” he said, reaching a hand toward her.

  She snapped at him and Olly backed off, clearing her path. Liv spread her wings, arching her back for her next great flap. But when she saw Olly’s frown, her wings drooped and all tension left her body. She suddenly felt every ache and pain.

  “I just want to do whatever I have to so we can escape,” she said.