Three lotd-1

by Jay Posey

  A shadow moved across the room. Feet gliding into view, backlit by the light. The presence. A person. A woman. She knelt down, but only in silhouette. Three realized he was lying on the floor. No, not the floor. On some sort of mat on the floor. The woman pressed a hand to his forehead, her skin smooth and cool.

  “Cass?” he heard a voice whisper. A voice like his, but weak, ragged. His tongue felt too large for his mouth.

  She made no reply. Not Cass. Cass was gone. She moved her hands, and he felt them on his shoulder, on his chest, then a stab of white pain slashed his vision. He wanted to cry out, but there was no air in his lungs. The woman stood quickly and disappeared again, as spots floated in Three’s already blurry vision.

  Wren. Where was Wren?

  Footsteps outside. Louder, but somehow more distant. Darkness closed in.

  A lantern. It’s called a lantern.

  In his dream, and he knew it was a dream because he was with Cass, they were back in the agent’s office, back where Three had killed Kostya thinking he was Fedor. Except Kostya wasn’t there now, and the agent was away. Cass sat on the agent’s desk, and Wren stood by her, driving his shuttle car amidst the clutter. And she watched her son, smiled at him, smiled with her sudden warmth like the sun breaking through a storm cloud. Three wanted to reach out to her and found he couldn’t move. Wanted to call her name, but found he couldn’t speak. She noticed him anyway, she looked to him, surprised, startled. But then her eyes danced with some secret delight, and her lips moved with a subtle curl at the edges. A whisper. She spoke, but Three couldn’t hear her.

  She slid off the agent’s desk, landed lightly on her feet. Glided to him, so close he could feel the warmth of her, so close but never touching, and she passed by and slipped through the door and walked down the long marble hall, impossibly long, without looking back. Three strained to call out, fought to chase after her, to catch her one last time before she disappeared, but it was no use. The office grew steadily warmer, steadily darker, and as Three tried to draw a breath, it was like sucking air through a heavy blanket.

  A dream. Only a dream. And some part of Three’s mind, the part that knew he was dreaming, knew just as well that something was terribly wrong.

  There was commotion, and a fiery brand of raw pain shot from between Three’s ribs into his chest cavity, forking like a bolt of lightning, shocking him awake. He struggled to escape, to twist away from the hurt, but they were holding him, they were holding him down, and there were too many to escape, and he was too weak to break free. The Weir. It had all been a dream, and he was only now waking to find the Weir were upon him.

  No, there were hurried words. Three’s mind fought the confusion, the disoriented thoughts scattered by fatigue and trauma and pain and loss. Cass was gone. He had left her.

  A face loomed into view, serious, concerned, but human. Fully human. A man. Old, early sixties, Asian. Bright eyes peered into his, as a voice floated into his consciousness.

  “…relieve the pressure there…”

  There was still pain, but Three found breathing easier. The man nodded, withdrew. Three’s vision swam, his limbs went suddenly warm and tingly. He fought it, but knew he was going under again. The man reappeared, calm, soothing.

  “Rest. You are safe here. Your son is here, safe.” Three felt a pressure on his shoulder. A comforting hand. “Rest now. Rest.”

  Three felt a question forming in his mind, but couldn’t grasp it before the darkness came, and he knew no more.

  Oddly, it was hunger that brought him around. A dull but deep ache in the pit of his stomach dragged him from whatever bottomless sleep he had fallen into. And in that in-between space between sleep and wakefulness, a sound entered his consciousness. Soft, subdued, but clear, haunting as it was hopeful. Singing. A woman’s voice, like a winter’s wind in high places, or the sharp brilliance of the night sky. He’d heard it before. There, at the end.

  Three let his eyes open. He was still on the same mat, staring at the same ceiling. The searing pain from… before, however long ago it had been, was gone now, replaced instead by an low-intensity but widespread ache, as if every muscle in his body had been bruised or strained in some way. He shifted and felt his elbow bump something that sent a jolt of pain through his ribcage on the left side, forcing a reflexive inhale. Glancing down, he noticed a clear tube inserted between his ribs. A long hose, snaking away. Before he could follow it, he realized the singing had stopped.

  His eyes instinctively flicked to the corner of the room, and he saw her there. For a moment, she was Cass. But then, no, taller, lighter hair, fairer skin. Blue-eyed, blue as a glacier. She didn’t approach.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  Three swallowed, and realized his mouth was painfully dry. He settled for shaking his head.

  “Do you think you could take some water?”

  He nodded. The woman dipped her head slightly and disappeared. A few moments later she returned holding a small blue bowl. She set it on the floor beside Three, and knelt. He curled himself up, clenching his jaw against the onslaught of his senses, forced himself through the discomfort and disorientation. The woman seemed surprised, and as he raised himself to a sort of hunched sitting position, he realized she’d intended to lift his head to help him drink. After a moment, she just handed him the bowl.

  “Thank you,” he choked out, surprised by the hollow sound of his voice, like the wind through rusting beams. He raised the bowl to his lips and sipped tentatively. The water was cool with hints of mint and citrus, and though his body screamed for him to drain it all in one breath, he forced himself to take it slow. Testing. A little bit at a time. The woman watched intently, hesitant. Or expectant. Maybe she was waiting to see if he’d collapse backwards. He wouldn’t.

  As he sipped the water, he traced the tube from his side, followed it to where it punched through some rubbery membrane down into a jar half-filled with water. The end of the tube was submerged. He watched as the hint of a bubble bulged, released, and floated to the surface. The woman followed his gaze, anticipated the question.

  “Your lungs collapsed,” she said. “But they seem to be stabilizing. Chapel thinks we should be able to pull the tube out tomorrow, maybe.”

  Three meant to respond, but only an exhale escaped, and even that seemed to take more effort than he’d expected. He closed his eyes and took another sip of water.

  “Shall I bring your son?”

  It took a moment to process. Wren, of course. Three didn’t have the energy to explain. He nodded. At least, he felt like he did. There was no telling how perceptible the movement had actually been. He heard her rustle, and knew she was standing. Three opened his eyes in time to see her slipping out. Almost floating. She had an easy grace in her movement that made him think of silk and falling snow.

  Gravity seemed to have tripled since Three last noticed it. His body started to sink slowly back to the floor, but he refused its motion. Instead, he turned, slowly, painfully, until his back was against the wall, and crossed his leaden legs. It wasn’t even slightly comfortable. He sipped the water again, longer this time. Two, three swallows. The room was smaller than it had first seemed. Long enough for him to lie down, but not much longer. And not as wide. Wooden walls, wooden floor. Simple, but well-fashioned, and well-maintained. A craftsman’s work. He noticed as well the door was on a track, with neatly-hidden rollers that kept it nearly flush to the wall when opened. Clean, efficient, space-saving.

  Three’s gradual evaluation was interrupted by Wren’s sudden appearance. The boy slipped in quietly and stayed close to the door, in the corner. Like a child expecting punishment. Or at a funeral. His eyes were wide, expectant. Hopeful. But far too heavy for a boy his age. The woman did not return with him.

  The two waited in brief silence, neither knowing what to say, or if anything should even be said at all. Finally, Three motioned with his head to the space next to him on the mat. Wren slipped over and sat down with him, and for a time t
hey just sat together in the dusky gloom. Three offered his bowl of water to Wren, but Wren shook his head. Three nodded, and sipped again, and struggled to find the words. But it was the boy who broke the silence.

  “They thought you were dead,” he said. “At first, I mean.”

  Three grunted. “Not too far wrong, I’d guess.”

  Wren looked down at his hands, tugged on the fingertips of one with the other.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Five days, I think.”

  “And they’ve been taking care of us?”

  Wren nodded, and looked up at Three with unexpectedly bright eyes. “They have tomatoes.”

  An odd detail, and a surprising one. “Real ones?”

  Wren nodded again. “And some green things too, but they don’t taste very good.”

  An underground farm, perhaps. Could explain the small room, the use of the lantern. But no, they’d need UV lights. That would mean generators, electric light. Three took another swallow of water. Still about half the bowl left.

  “What happened?” Three asked. “When they came? The last I remembered, the Weir were…”

  He trailed off, unsure of Wren’s state, suddenly concerned of waking memories that might have been best unmentioned. But while Wren dropped his gaze back to his own hands, he answered readily.

  “The Weir ran away.”

  “What do you mean, ‘ran away’? They didn’t follow us?”

  “Oh, no they found us, but they ran away.”

  “Was there a fight?”

  “No,” Wren shrugged, but answered matter-of-factly, as if it was no big deal. “I think the angels scared them.”

  “Who are the angels, Wren?”

  “Lil. And Mister Carter. And Mister Chapel, I guess. They’re not really angels, I don’t think. But they can look like them. When they want to.”

  Three’s mind swirled, still off-balance from the damage he’d suffered, the time he’d been under. He drank more deeply. Steadied himself. Ravenously hungry, but daunted by the idea of trying to stand. Real tomatoes. That would be something.

  Angels. Something else entirely.

  Twenty-Five

  Three jerked awake, not realizing he’d nodded off. The bowl sat in his lap, empty now of its water. Wren hadn’t moved, just sat motionless, hugging his knees and staring at the wall, sea-green eyes dull and unfocused, somewhere far away. Three stretched his legs out in front of him. The motion drew Wren’s attention back to reality.

  “Think I dozed off,” Three said. Wren nodded. “You hungry?”

  Wren nodded again. Three looked again at the tube inserted in his chest, and wondered what would happen if he stood. He’d never had a collapsed lung before, let alone two. His list of injury firsts was growing ever shorter. “Well. Why don’t we see what we can find, huh?”

  Three reached out tentatively and took hold of the jar of water that held the other end of his chest-tube, moved it gingerly as if just touching it might somehow reignite the pain. He lifted it and brought it closer. Another bubble had just begun to form. Like a bead of glass. It made sense. Pressure from his chest cavity forced air through the tube, relieving the strain on his lungs and enabling them to re-inflate. The water jar acted as a cheap one-way valve, letting pressure out, but not allowing any back in. Clever. Three couldn’t help but wonder if he ever would’ve thought of that on his own.

  The jar was interesting, but it was mostly an excuse to avoid the hard work of standing. Three thought about calling for the woman again, or sending Wren to fetch someone, but quickly dismissed it. As long as he was still conscious, he would ignore the creeping fear of vulnerability. Fake it. People can’t tell the difference anyway.

  “Right,” he said aloud, and stirred forward, tucking his legs beneath him. Wren clambered to his feet and stood by as Three began the process of working his way up. It was nearly a full minute before he could be considered standing, and even then he had to lean against the wall to steady himself. He couldn’t remember a time when he had been this weak.

  “Are you OK?” Wren asked quietly. He formed it as a question, but the tone made it a statement: you’re not OK.

  “Sure, kiddo. Just a little woozy.” Fake it. Whether proving it to the boy or to himself, Three forced himself off the wall then, and refused to let his body collapse. It was more of a fight than he would admit. One step. Then another. Hold. Focus. Don’t dare fall. More like walking a tightrope than it had any right to be. Three was so focused on getting one foot in front of the other, he didn’t see it coming through the door.

  Something hard jabbed into his elbow, the impact just enough to force his arm into the tube leading into his chest. There was a lightning stab of pain between his ribs, and a sudden roll of fire down the front of his leg. Something shattered in the distance, though Three knew not as distant as it sounded. It went dark, and he inhaled sharply, reflexively, caught the doorjamb to keep from collapsing. It was several moments before he realized his eyes were squeezed shut. He slid them open slowly, scanned for the source of this new pain.

  The woman. The woman was back, holding a small tray, with a bowl partially filled with some sort of thin broth. It was steaming. Three guessed the bowl had been much fuller moments before. That would explain the burning leg. The woman stood in the hall, eyes wide, mouth open, trapped somewhere between stunned and mortified.

  “You’re back,” he said, because it was the first thing that came to mind.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked almost breathlessly.

  “Hurtin’.”

  “I mean, you shouldn’t be up… you shouldn’t be able to be up.”

  For some reason, watching the dawning of thoughts and emotions play across the woman’s face struck Three as amusing. He felt his mouth curling in a subdued smile. She was only just now realizing what had happened. And suddenly she was a flurry of activity, but obviously uncertain of what needed to be done.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s alright, ma’am,” he answered. It was too warm. “Not much for soup anyway.” Getting warmer.

  “Oh no…”

  Three followed her gaze, scanned the floor. The end of his chest-tube lay in a puddle amongst shards of glass. At some point, his jar of water had slipped from his hand. The shattering noise. Why was it so hot?

  The woman no longer had the tray, she was standing, hands up towards him. Her mouth was open, moving. Probably saying something. Three felt his lips forming a curse as he realized all the work of standing and walking to the door was about to be for nothing.

  When he woke the next time, there was a man sitting on the floor near the lantern, across the small room. Vaguely familiar. From before. He’d been the first to tell Three that Wren was safe. He didn’t seem to notice that Three was awake, so Three remained still. Let his eyes rove, pick up the details. His focus was sharper now. Same room. They hadn’t moved him. At least, not far. And the tube was gone from his chest, replaced now by some gauzy bandaging with a faint pink spot in the center. Something about the way it wound around him spoke of something else familiar; clean, efficient. A craftsman’s work. The same hands that had constructed this room.

  Three’s eyes went back to the man in the middle of the room. He had something laid across his lap and was intently working on it, though the backlighting made it impossible to see what he was doing. His movements were small, exact. An etcher’s hand. Or a surgeon’s.

  “You a doctor or a carpenter?”

  The man didn’t stir, but smiled slightly, as if he’d been expecting Three’s comment. “A little of both, I suppose.” He looked up at Three then. “But not as much of either as I’d wish.” Bright-eyed, kind. Deeply intelligent. There was a weight to the man’s stillness, like a great stone in a deep pool. “I am called Chapel.”

  His voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it had warm, rounded edges that reassured, like a grandfather’s.

  “That your name, or just what you’re called?”r />
  Chapel’s smile widened. “Do you only ask questions, or do you answer them as well?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re recovering. How’s your breathing?”

  Three tested it, drew a long, slow inhale. There was internal pressure, an automatic hesitance to deep breathing, but the only pain he felt was in the stretching of the flesh where his tube had been. “Fair. Your work?”

  Chapel nodded and then shrugged. “Not all of course. You’ve required many caretakers since you arrived. But the blame for the hole in your chest is mine alone.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Chapel inclined his head in a slight bow, a precise movement that graciously acknowledged Three’s gratitude without accepting any credit. Three hadn’t even begun to process how much he owed these people, this man in particular, but somehow in that one moment, it was as if all expectation of repayment dissolved.

  “I imagine you’re quite hungry. Shall we find you a proper meal? Something other than soup?”

  Three nodded, and steeled himself for another attempt at moving. As he rolled up to his elbow, Chapel rose to his feet with surprising ease and fluidity, almost as if falling in reverse, though completely controlled. The next moment he was at Three’s side, offering a hand. Not as a nurse to an invalid; as a man to his friend. Three took it and, after a brief struggle, was standing.

  “You lost quite a bit of blood,” Chapel said. “I expect you’ll find yourself unusually weary for the next few days.” He extended his hand, holding out the object that he’d been working on, offering it to Three. “This may help, until you’ve gotten your balance back.”

  Three accepted it with curiosity, and realized it was a walking stick, carved of a smooth, stout wood. Three, maybe three and a half feet in length, it was well-balanced, with a subtle but elegant arch. Delicate markings near the end seemed to be an incomplete etching at first, but when he rotated it in the meager light, they revealed themselves to be an understated image reminiscent of bamboo. Minimalist detail that captured the essence perfectly. Whole lot of effort for a stick. Chapel seemed to anticipate Three’s thoughts.