Escape from Harrizel (51 page)

We’re all crowding around Sampson who’s
holding a black device over his head with both arms. He projects
his voice so everyone can hear him, turning the object in various
angles so all can see.

“This is a Chaisle. Similar to a standard
pistol and works about the same. In lieu of bullets, it holds a
capsule of tiny blades that, when triggered, release in a spiraled
path,
literally
carving their way through the target. If you
want someone stopped dead,” he holds the Chaisle up high, “use
this. Be warned—it does not do well in far ranges,” Sampson
illustrates aiming out toward the openness. “More than thirty feet
and the spiral fails, the blades falling before they reach the
target. Use as backup for close defense,” he sets the Chaisle on
the ground at his feet, picking up a silver, similar looking object
except this one has a longer barrel. Like before, Sampson holds the
item over his head, making sure we can all see.

“This is a Fiminer. One of my personal
favorites, it penetrates the target first, then pins the capture to
the ground. A Fiminer is a non-lethal option to suppress your
opponent if you need them alive later. It can reach far ranges but
don’t fall fool to its arrogance. The magnetism of the clip,”
Sampson points to the barrel’s black, triangular tip, “only holds
to the metal in the ground for so long. If strong enough, your
opponent could pull themselves free—the mere wound being your only
advantage. Now,” he sets the Fiminer next to the Chaisle and looks
back to us, narrowing his eyes as he glances from face to face. “We
have plenty for everyone to practice with both. Get
used
to
them. To their weight. To handling them.
Practice
. Find your
aim,” he motions to two giant piles laid out on either side of him.
On the right, a heaping stack of Chaisles and the left, a mound of
Fiminers. “I’ll be walking around to help anyone who needs it…”

Everyone rushes up and selects one to
practice with. The Chaisles seem to be the popular choice so I
select the Fiminer and run my fingers against its cool, silvery
metal. It’s lighter than I expected—maybe only a pound or two.
Lining it up to my eye, I find an imaginary target out in the
emptiness in front of me and pretend to shoot.

“Taking many prisoners?”

“Oh,” I drop the Fiminer at the sound of his
voice. “Hey Walker.”

“It’s Heath, actually.”

“Right, right,” I shake my head, forgetful
everyone’s only part of who they were. I wonder what Reid’s first
name is?

“It’s alright. I like Walker too,” he
shrugs. “It’s just about getting used to it, right?”

“I guess,” I shrug and then, after a moment,
“so where you heading back to?”

“Austin,” he pauses and then, with real
sincerity says, “you should come and visit sometime. You know, when
you’re settled and want a change of scenery.”

“That sounds nice…” I choose my words
carefully, “and I honestly would if I could.”

He’s waiting for more but there’s nothing
left to say. His golden eyes light up after a second, realization
striking him.

“You?” he turns to me, angry. “
You
should be able to return more than anyone. The way you handled the
crowd... you gave us our memories back and
you
can’t go
home?”

Shaking my head, I debate asking him to keep
his voice down. No one else needs to know I can’t go home. No one
needs to know I’m going to stay and fight alongside Sampson and
Clarence in their war. That’s my business. I’m about to ask Walker
to lower his voice when I feel someone watching me. I turn,
scanning the crowded lot as a pair of sharp, powerful eyes lock
onto mine.

I’m frozen.

Reid’s form stands rigid. He’s watching with
narrowed eyes, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he’s
restricting himself from heading over.

Walker slips his hand in mine, offering a
gentle squeeze. “I’m really sorry, Fallon.”

Reid takes a small step but stops
himself.

“It’s not your fault,” I focus on Walker.
“You know, it happened this way. Maybe for a reason. But I’m happy
you can go back… you know… if we can pull this whole thing
off.”

“And why can’t we?” he drops my hand and
motions around. “You guys seem to know what you’re doing.

“Direction’s one thing. Willingness is
totally different.”

“And what? We’re not willing?” He lifts his
arms as if to demonstrate how many people are out here. It does
seem though, now after taking a second look, that more people have
joined the groups. The entire population’s still not here, but we
may have grown from two hundred to three or so by now.

“You know what I mean.”

“The others just need time to adjust.
They’ll be out here in a day or two. Once they realize how mad they
are…” Walker heads for the mound of Chaisles and selects one. I
follow along, feeling Reid’s scorching stare with each step. I want
to glance at him but that wouldn’t do any good. At least Walker’s
focusing on the inevitable battle ahead. He holds the Chaisle up,
aiming at an invisible target and mutters to himself. “I can’t wait
to use this on those bastards. Can’t wait.”

He shoots and the flying bullet of blades
spins outward for about twenty feet, then falls to the rocky ground
below. I watch it disappear into the cracked gray-blue, imagining
the enemy falling to the ground instead. Keeping his aim with the
Chaisle, he states rather than asks. “When your cheek was cut—that
was the night you found them.”

“Yeah.”

“You found them by yourself?”

I exhale. “Yeah.”

“Christ Almighty, Fallon,” he lowers his
Chaisle. Looking at me more intently than I’d anticipated, Walker
speaks in tender, curious words. “What happened out there?”

I take a breath, ready to dive back into the
horrors of that first night when Sampson’s voice projects over the
entire lot. “Very good. Let’s have the groups rotate then.
Remember, we will be out here training everyday so if you want
extra practice, you will have it!”

Thankful for the distraction, I return a
smile to Walker and head for the Water Pole just as Pratt joins my
side. The rest of our group migrates in the same direction as those
with Clarence move to Vix and those with Vix, come around to
Sampson. I try not to look for Reid, to locate him amongst the
crowd but I’m already searching.

“You okay?” Pratt asks.

“Yeah…” I lie without caring to convince
her. “I’m fine.”

“Is it about Walker?” she tries but I shake
my head. “Reid?”

The sound of his name stings me, my legs
involuntarily stopping. The hesitation startles even me as Pratt’s
mouth dips to an unsettling frown. She lowers her head, speaking in
soft words. “I’m sorry.”

Why is everyone apologizing to me today?

I shrug, walking on. Can’t we go back to
weapons training? To prepping for the return of the Vermix? We’re
almost to the Water Pole, Clarence looking on the large group as we
approach in one slow-moving herd.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you
two,” Pratt tries again, speaking lowly so that only the two of us
can hear. “But he’s been watching you all day.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

A couple more steps.

“…Means
something
.”

“Saying his goodbyes, I’m sure. Listen,
Pratt, I’m sorry,” I step away from her, toward the pile of weapons
in front of us, “but I can’t talk about this anymore.”

I turn before getting a response, heading
for the front, for Clarence. I don’t want to talk to anyone right
now. Not a single person. Except maybe Granny Ruth. Another punch
to my gut and I’m out of breath again. The only person who could
possibly help, can’t. She’s been taken from me brutally, by an
unknown monster, one I will end if I ever get the chance.

I shake the image away, shake the past away.
The future is all I have left and besides, I don’t need help. I
just need to get my hands on those weapons. I need to learn how to
use them,
practice
using them. It’s pointless filling my
head with anything other than that.

The next few hours pass the same way, each
group rotating between Vix, Clarence and Sampson and learning
different types of weapons, both Dofinike and human. On our last
rotation around, Clarence draws our attention to the front with a
boomingly strong voice.

“Alright, you’ll really want to pay
attention. This,” he holds up a triangular blue and orange object
with a long, narrow pipe extending from one point, “is a Traxpire.
This is the Vermixes ultimate weapon. This is only a model and
unfortunately, we don’t have any to practice on…”

“So why show us?” Werzo’s voice cuts through
the crowd.

I shoot him a look, along with a few others
before we redirect our attention back to Clarence.

“I’m
showing
you,” it sounds like
he’s holding back a snide remark of his own, “to make you aware.
This,” again, he holds it high so we can all see, “will cause fatal
damage if it doesn’t kill you instantly. It is the prize defense of
the Vermix and yes,” he answers our puzzling looks, “you should be
afraid.”

“What does it do?” someone asks.

“It shoots a tiny device into your target
and after three,” he shifts, considering, “maybe four seconds,
unleashes a set of chemicals that create an explosion, disabling
that portion—or limb—of your victim. Aim for the head or heart—it’s
a fatal shot.”

“But the Chaisle…” a girl starts.

“…Will wound, possibly slow, but this,” he
makes sure everyone can see, “is the real deal. You do
not
want to be on the receiving end.”

“Will it be their main defense?” I ask.

“Not necessarily. They’ll only reach for it
when absolutely desperate. They’ll want to reserve ammo so Chaisles
and Fiminers are your best bet. Now,” Clarence begins pacing, “if
truly
threatened, Vermix will reach for the Traxpire or if
they have them, their hand whips—whips so sharp they can cut
through bone.”

A ubiquitous inhale fills the air.

“I’m not telling you this to frighten you…
but you need to know what you’re up against. Again, the latter two
are not likely, but still possible. You need to be as prepared as
you can.”

“And we can’t practice?” Werzo reaches for
the Traxpire again.

“You
cannot
,” Clarence keeps it high
up and away, “but get a good look. If you see one, run. That is not
advice.”

After Clarence presents a few more smaller,
close combat items, everyone retreats to individual practice at his
request, most returning for the Chaisles, Fiminers and other
various weapons. When the sky fades to pink and people have slowed,
finding interest in socializing rather than training, Sampson
addresses the entire lot again, projecting his voice over all
others.

“This has been a productive first day. I
thank you all for your help and hard work. Let’s rest for the
remainder of the evening and we’ll resume training again tomorrow.
Will the following persons please stay behind: Francie Fallon,
Andrew Reid, Charles Tucker, Matthew Able, Roy Harrison, James
Jace, Asen Yahola, Steven Kelly, Kurt Clark, Brandon Griffin and
June Pratt.” Sampson ends with a slight bow and a gracious, “Thank
you.”

Andrew Reid. His name is Andrew.

I ignore the pounding in my chest and cross
the distance to Sampson, everyone else walking past me, back toward
the Castle. They’re heading in for the night, to relax, to mingle,
to have time to themselves—if they so desire. But I’m still here,
when all
I
want to do is sleep. Sleep away the past. Sleep
away the future. And most certainly, sleep away the present.
Everyone keeps telling me what I deserve. Shouldn’t it be
peace?

We all at arrive roughly the same time,
Clarence and Vix making their way over as well. Reid is just feet
away. With arms tightly folded over his chest, he cocks his head
back, focusing on Sampson. We both stand rigidly still, like a
block of solid space separates us, one we’re both fully conscious
of. It’s like that every time though, when he’s around. Space is
broken into a matter of hard distance that shouldn’t exist. And
right now, neither of us is willing—or able—to break it.

“Alright,” Sampson looks around. “Very
productive day indeed. There’s a lot we must go over and I believe
everyone here is a vital asset to strategizing the next phase so…”
he glances from face to face, “with that said, why don’t we all
head upstairs for a chat?”

The group nods as Sampson, Clarence and Vix
lead us to Beshib’s office on the top floor. The room’s enormous,
about half the size of the Auditorium and sits enclosed in rust
colored marble. A great, round black table sits in the immediate
center of the room and I can’t help but think of Arthur and his
knights.

“Please,” Sampson motions to the table as we
all begin to sit.

The chairs, made from the same marble of the
table, are uncomfortable and cold. We place ourselves evenly around
the table, leaving a few vacant chairs between us.

“Where’s Jothkore?” Pratt asks.

“Attending some personal errands for me, but
I shall fill him in when he returns,” Sampson looks around the
table. “Alright, today’s been very productive indeed. But I was
only viewing from the instructor’s perspective and at times, this
can be flawed. You were amongst nearly three-fourths of the
population. How’d they feel throughout the day?”

No one says anything but instead, looks
around the room. Was anybody paying attention to the others? Or was
today a selfish one, used to reflect only what we wanted to think
about? The silence goes on a little too long so I summon the moment
with Walker and his statement.

I can’t wait to use this on those
bastards. Can’t wait
.

“Angry,” I finally admit. “Some of them were
angry.” At this, I glance to Reid who’s already watching me. It
causes a violent stir in my gut so I look back to Sampson.