Escape from Harrizel

by C. G. Coppola

  Escape from Harrizel

  By

  C. G. Coppola

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  C. G. Coppola on Smashwords

  Escape from Harrizel

  Copyright © 2013 by C. G. Coppola

  Cover photo copyright C. G. Coppola

  Cover by Joleene Naylor

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Adult Reading Material

  ******

  Many thanks to everyone who supported and encouraged me throughout this process—I couldn’t have done it without any of you! Special thanks to my editor, Jennifer Flax, and my amazing cover designer, Joleene Naylor, for helping make this story come to life.

  ******

  For the lovers, the dreamers and you, Kermit.

  Thank you for making me a believer.

  ******

  Escape from Harrizel

  Escort

  Arrival

  Castle

  Allies

  Boy from the Ruins

  Secrets Revealed

  Maze

  Camp

  Challenge

  Pills and Passageways

  Rox

  Snatchings

  Review

  Rogues

  Sampson

  Ellae

  Issues

  Confessions

  Searching

  Adrenaline

  Blovid’s Help

  Attack

  Protection

  Rogue Rox

  Revolt

  Reminders

  Memories

  Preparation

  Second Battle of Harrizel

  Departures

  BONUS MATERIAL:

  First Sighting

  The Challenge

  First Kiss

  Chapter One: Escort

  “Can you hear me?”

  It’s one long blurred sound, like someone shouting at the other end of a tunnel. The words are there for a second, broken apart for me to hear, to make sense of, but then they’re gone again, swept away as their call dies faintly in the distance. They repeat a moment later, in four distinct verses, the third highest in pitch. It’s a question.

  But what’s he asking?

  It must be important by the way his blue eyes flicker between mine. But then they’re gone. Disappearing. They’re always disappearing, flashing in and out like an erratic switch offering intervals of sight. One minute he’s here, a moist brow wiped clean by an olive green sleeve and the next there’s nothing. Darkness that is also white, quiet and still. And I’m alone.

  “Fallon, can you hear me?”

  The sound of my name triggers a rush of questions I want answered all at once. Is my name really Fallon? Why does that sound so wrong and yet, familiar? Where am I? What happened? And most importantly, why can’t I remember?

  I nod, although my guess at the question is only that.

  “Tell me you can hear me.” His voice echoes but grows tighter than before, more distinct. The hum is gone and words are here. The spells of darkness turn to sight and he’s here, over me, wiping a brown curl from my face. “Fallon?”

  “I can hear you,” I say, surprised by the sound of my voice. That much is familiar.

  “Can you sit up?”

  I try, but my abdomen roars with soreness, like a muscle spasm from one too many sit-ups. My arms shake, but his hands are around them in a second. Soft and papery, like an old man. Like a grandpa. Is he mine?

  He helps pull my back from the floor and I stifle a cry at the throbbing pain. Once up, I see my legs outstretched in front of me—frayed bellbottom jeans with splatters of crimson on my muddied Converse. The crimson dots the gray torso of my baseball tee, a few specks staining the black sleeves. A heavy pounding erupts at the back of my head and I reach my hand around it, feeling a large lump under the crown. A curtain of curls pads the bump which cups easily into the small of my hand.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m dizzy,” I gulp saliva down a raw throat. “I feel like I’ve been hit with a cinder block.”

  We’re in a narrow hallway, lined in brown cabinets, a few unevenly hanging from their hinges. A black oven sits to my left with a tattered dishrag of snowman and holly bushes hanging from the handle. There’s a plastic gray trashcan across from me, cornered by two walls of yellow and orange wallpaper.

  “Is this your house?” I turn to the man. He has yellow-white hair peppered with gray, and eyes that glimmer an unnatural blue, as if he’d picked the color from a paint shop himself.

  “No.”

  “Are we trespassing?”

  “We’ll be fine,” he offers his hand, “Come, let me help you up.”

  I take it but my legs are unstable. It’s a struggle to put pressure on them but I manage and find myself upright, immediately overlooking a dining room with a solid oak table. Beyond it, a long, empty sitting space with a television, yellowy-beige couch and two maroon chairs—one near the kitchen and the other, caddy cornered by the sliding glass door. A narrow hallway separates the couch and chair on the same wall.

  “Can you stand?” he asks, holding my elbows in his hands.

  “I’d rather sit,” I lock eyes on the couch beyond him. He walks me over, hands still cupping my elbows, and places me down gently. “What happened?”

  He drops his mouth to say something but instead, turns and heads for the kitchen, opening a cabinet that sends a piercing squeak into the air. “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “Water, if you have it.”

  The yellow and orange wallpaper continues into the room, lighting the space. A brown shag carpet lines the floors, sinking under a wooden stand which supports a small television at the other end of the room, a thin layer of dust coating the screen. There’s a large sliding glass door to my right with billowing red sheers on either end, whisking in the scent of oncoming rain.

  “Where are we?”

  “In a friend’s house,” he turns off the faucet.

  “Are they here?”

  He approaches, his smile turning down. “Not anymore. Have some water,” he says and hands me a glass of clear liquid. I take it and gulp the cool beverage quickly. It soothes my throat, the sensation trickling into my chest as the pain in my head abates.

  He takes a seat opposite me, in the maroon chair near the television and crosses one khaki leg over the other. I empty the glass in one sip and set it next to me on a wooden end table. I lick my lips, lapping up the remaining liquid. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” he smiles. “I always find a good drink does the trick.”

  “Should we check the cabinets then?”

  “Maybe in a bit,” he laughs, “although, probably not the best idea in your condition.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure all it can do is help at this point.”

  “And how are you feeling?” he tries, “A bit better?”

  “Not great.”

 
“It’ll subside here in a moment.”

  A long, silent minute passes before the wait becomes unbearable. “I’m sorry,” I lean forward as my stomach roars. It might be rude to be so direct but with a migraine forming, I’m in no mood for evasiveness. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yes…” he starts, clearing his throat, “but first, introductions are in order, don’t you think? My name is Clarence.” He waits and as if anticipating my struggle to respond, offers to help. “And you’re Fallon.”

  Fallon. There it is again. My name. Or what should be my name. Something rings in my core so I try it on, testing it out. Fallon. Fallon. “No,” I shake my head defiantly, “you have me mistaken for someone else.”

  “For whom?” he glances around the stark room.

  “But that’s not my name.”

  “Then what is?” Clarence asks, resting his chin in the fleshy groove between his pointer and thumb. A pompous grin sneaks across his lips in a challenging manner. I’m not one to falter under a haughty threat but when I go to respond, nothing comes to mind. I don’t know what my name is. Panic sets in, swelling me with newfound fear. He must see it in my face because his voice softens as he says, “There’s no need to be alarmed. You’re perfectly safe. And this is normal.”

  “Not knowing your name is normal?”

  “Well,” he starts, his smile wavering, “not knowing your name isn’t normal but with the situation we find ourselves in, it is.”

  “And what situation is that?”

  His smile vanishes completely. “Let’s put that on hold for right now and focus on a few things,” he threads his fingers together on his lap. “You’re alive.”

  “Yes,” I agree quickly.

  “And you feel fine now?”

  I lift my hand to the bump. “My head hurts… and I feel like I just birthed a rhinoceros,” I look up to him, attempting to hide obvious panic behind calmer eyes. “Did I have some sort of accident? Did it cause me to have amnesia?”

  “Oh no,” he shakes his head, “nothing like that. You did have an accident—yes—but I saved you. If you know anything, know I’m here to help you, Fallon. I came for you as soon as I could.”

  He wants me to believe him. He needs me to. This will only go well if I put my trust in him. A strong feeling—is it intuition?—suggests I should, but uncertainty pollutes it with doubt. Taking my time, I choose my words carefully, focusing on his unblinking blue eyes. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “A policeman? Therapist?”

  “No and no,” he refuses my guesses with a humorous shake of his head, Rumplelstiltskin reveling in his cryptic secret. Clarence’s mouth turns up after a moment, “I’m curious to know why my occupation should define me?”

  “…Trade says a lot about a person.”

  “True,” Clarence nods along, “but I’m a man of many trades.”

  Why won’t he just tell me? It’s a game to him—all a game. I play along though, hoping to win some truth. “And your current trade?”

  “Depends on how you look at it…” he sighs, shifting in his chair as he crosses his other leg. “Some use the word magician… though I’m far from pulling rabbits from my hat. Others say missionary, thief… sometimes liar.”

  “And what would you choose?”

  “Escort,” he grins widely in a cocky sort of way, “at the present moment. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” I shoot back. And then, after a moment, “Where would you be taking me?”

  “Home. To your new home.”

  He’s going too fast and not telling me anything. New home? What does this mean? A silent alarm rings in my head but I hide the fear in casual but curious words, playing along. “What happened to my old home?”

  His eyes flicker from mine, to the kitchen on his right. “Give it a minute and you’ll remember. All of it. All of this,” he glances around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Remember what?”

  Clarence returns my stare with sullen, eyes. How to tell me? After a moment, he utters two words so soft they could crumble into whispers at their weight. “The war.”

  The word is ice, sitting heavy in the air like a glacier, ready to break and crumble all in its path. I take a minute to repeat it, finding no friendlier welcome with my own rendition “War?”

  “There was a war, a very terrible war, you see… and it was destroyed.”

  “My home had a war?” I ask, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice.

  “No. Earth.”

  It hits me like a violent punch to the gut. Whatever he’s doing, whatever game he’s playing—it’s real. I suppress the heat of panic rising to my cheeks and focus on the carpet, quickly calculating the situation. He’s older than me but not ancient, and could probably catch me if I tried to run for it. But if he’s planning on taking me somewhere, there will be no other time to escape. It’s now or never.

  “I can see you’re trying to decide if I’m insane,” he interrupts my thoughts with his smooth, velvety voice.

  I suppress a gulp. “Aren’t you?”

  “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? But I assure you, Fallon, I’m in my right mind.”

  My eyes flicker to the door behind him. It could lead anywhere. Another bedroom, a closet. A back porch. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “By all means,” he waves me on, “if you feel you must feign a full bladder for a moment of solitude…”

  “It’s not for solitude.”

  “I know,” he responds automatically, “but with no windows, there’s no escape. So solitude is the best you have.”

  So he knows. If he knows and isn’t trying to restrain me yet, maybe he won’t. Maybe the best thing is to be direct and above that, more confident than I feel. When I speak, I use conviction as if my words are not up for debate.

  “Earth didn’t have a war.”

  “Give it a moment.”

  “But you’re lying.”

  “Why are you fighting this?” he furrows his brows at me, as if I’d offended some crucial opinion of his. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I stand up, my legs still wobbly from the fresh weight. “Whose house are we in?”

  “It’s not a matter of believing if its fact,” Clarence shakes his head, “and unfortunately, the people who lived here didn’t survive. Some places remained more or less in-tact than others. I found you here.”

  My eyes drop from his to the floor. Clusters of fringe point in opposing directions, muddied by overuse, and the bottom cushion in the maroon chair sits lower and slightly discolored from the arm rests and back panel. A light coat of dust blankets the gray television but on the wooden stand supporting it, away from both Clarence and I, a circle of condensation remains.

  A chill runs through me as I look back to him. “But why would I…”

  “Clearly you were searching for food and water.”

  “And my clothes?”

  “You must’ve rummaged through some old closets and found them. There’s no other way.”

  I glance over his green button-up and khakis. “And yours?”

  He hesitates for only a second. “Try to remember, Fallon. Think about it. Think about the famine. The rioting. When your government collapsed…”

  “You said Earth.”

  He smirks at the correction, “Indeed I did. Some held hope America would bring about the change the world needed…” his voice trails off as he looks to the billowing red sheers, lost in his own thoughts.

  When I realize he’s not going to elaborate, I do a quick sweep of the room. There’s the door behind him, which could lead anywhere. The glass panels to my right are closer to him and the hallway disappearing beyond the couch would only lead further into the house, not out of it.

  But then there’s the door to my left, at the end of a narrow entry way, just beyond the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed it before, Clarence
having led me into this room for our chat. He’s seated still, gazing off and I’m already on my feet. I could do it. If I sprinted, flew through the door—granted it’s unlocked—I could run as fast as possible, finding someone, anyone who’d help. I could make the best attempt. I could escape.

  “Fallon,” Clarence says, his sights still set on the sliding glass panels, “it’d be best not to.”

  I freeze, dread returning. Is it too late? If I make for a run for the door now, will I reach it in time? Instead of fleeing immediately, I shift a step, careful to keep the sound of my shoes from betraying me. “You said you were here to help me.”

  Clarence breaks his gaze and looks at me. With surprising sincerity he admits, “I am.”

  Another step and his eyes drop to my feet.

  “Then understand I’m fine on my own.” Another two steps. “Always have been.”

  “Fallon…” he’s requesting now, in a desperate way I almost feel sorry for. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

  Another step.

  The door is right behind me. I’m closer to it then Clarence, who hasn’t budged an inch. He sits deflated, as if he has no intention of running after me. Will he when he must? Or is that someone else’s job? A new thought fills me with terror as I work out the possibility that maybe Clarence isn’t alone in all this. The idea that someone could be waiting on the other side of the door fills me with newfound terror. But it doesn’t matter at this point.

  “Thank you for the water.”

  “And what do you think is out there?” he flies to a stand, his hand outstretched, mocking the door like some clichéd routine. “Salvation? Escape?” He walks closer as I back up, gripping the handle in a closed fist. “Think really hard, Fallon. Think about it. What happened before you awoke?”