The Felix Chronicles: Five Days in January

by R. T. Lowe

  “It’s a good look for you,” Allison joked. “I was thinking about getting you those pants for your birthday.”

  Felix smiled for her. “You coming?”

  She flexed her hand and ran her fingers gingerly over her forearm. “I busted open some stitches on that freak’s face. I’m gonna wander downstairs and see if I can find someone to sew me back up.”

  “Here,” Felix said, handing her his keys. “I feel like hoofing it.”

  “It’s a long walk,” Allison told him and raised her eyebrows. “Why don’t you wait for me? I don’t think it’ll take long.”

  Felix looked out the window and the gray January sky beckoned to him. He needed to get out. To feel the cold on his skin. He couldn’t think in this room. Too many voices. Too many beeping machines. Too many people. He wanted to understand what had happened to the world since he woke up this morning on the couch in Woodrow’s Room. The TV was telling him Lofton was the hero, and Felix, all this time, had thought he was supposed to be the hero. Lofton was the bad guy and Felix was the good guy. Wasn’t that the whole premise of The Warning? Wasn’t that how the story was supposed to go? Not according to the TV, or the workers out in the hall hoping the people would rise up and go vigilante on their elected leaders. If Lofton was really the good guy, then what did that make Felix?

  “That’s okay,” Allison said, watching his face, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll stop by later. Let’s grab some dinner before we come back.”

  “Okay,” he replied vaguely and crossed the room to Caitlin’s bed. “I’m going to the dorm to clean up,” he told them. “Anyone need anything?”

  “Can you get my phone charger?” Lucas asked. “It should be on my desk. Oh—and my cologne. There’s some nurses who’ve expressed a strong interest in experiencing the mystery and lifestyle of Minnesota.”

  “Do you know Blake?” Caitlin asked, rolling her eyes at Lucas. She smiled at Felix but her face was tired and he wondered if she was ever going to recover from this.

  “Blake?” Felix said, making himself sound more cheerful than he felt. “Maybe. Third floor across from the bathroom?”

  “Yeah,” Caitlin said. “She’s in my Political Science class and we share notes sometimes. Can you ask her if I can borrow them? I missed class and I don’t want to get behind. Professor Surita is such a tough grader and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if we had to write a paper. I wouldn’t even know where to begin without her notes.”

  Felix cracked a grin. “You’re not being serious, are you?”

  Caitlin’s lips curled up in a smile and her eyes seemed to regain some of her usual feistiness. “Felix, um”—she dropped her gaze—“I just wanted to apologize for what I said before at the quarry.” Her eyes met his. “I know what you are.” A single tear formed in the corner of her eye, streaking her cheek. “You’re my friend.”

  Chapter 26

  The Chosen One

  Bill sat at his kitchen table, drinking beer and watching footage of The Rose Bowl Massacre on his tablet. New videos were popping up on YouTube every few minutes from survivors of the rampage, and he alternated between those clips and the live coverage on the national news feeds. He drained his beer and brought back two more from the fridge.

  The images on the screen had provided him with the answer to his quandary. Bill, for the first time in nearly twenty years, had clarity. He knew what he needed to do. There were risks involved, of course, but he had faith in Felix. On the table were seven empty bottles and a piece of notepad paper, mottled and dog-eared at the corners. On this piece of paper, Eve Ashfield, Lofton’s mother, had produced what was perhaps the only description of The Warning in existence. Bill had no intention of reading it. He knew what it said. Taking it from the safe in his bedroom closet was a statement—an act of defiance. He brushed his fingers over the paper, its physical presence bolstering his confidence, reaffirming the soundness of his decision. After so many years of self-doubt, he finally had the courage to do what he once thought unimaginable.

  He tapped his phone and rested it on the table, palms sweating, breaths coming a little too fast.

  “Good evening, William,” his dad answered, not taking into account it was just three hours past noon on the west coast. “I have to say you predicted this. You said he was going to do something big. Well, you have to hand it to Lofton. When he decides to make a splash, he empties the pool. The media’s falling in line like the vapid sheep they are. It apparently hasn’t occurred to anyone the only people who benefit from the massacre are Lofton and his newfound political party. You would think at least one of these pundits might comment on just how convenient all this is for the ERA and—”

  “I’m telling him!” Bill interrupted. “I’m telling Felix everything.”

  “You…you what?” his dad stammered out. He paused, clearing his throat. “Don’t be rash, William. I understand this is a setback, but we should continue to adhere to our plan. We tell him what he needs to know. Let’s not confuse him or clutter his thinking with the unnecessary nuances of a complicated prophecy.”

  “He doesn’t trust me,” Bill said slowly. “It’s Allison, really. She has a…sense for these things, and she’s convinced him I’m not being truthful.” He drank from his bottle, tipping it back. “She’s right—of course. I’ve been lying from the day we met. I’m going to lose him unless he trusts me, and the only way that can happen is if I tell him everything.”

  “It’s not quite so simple as you’re making it out,” his dad responded, his voice calm and reasonable, not his usual blustering self. “If you do that he’ll jump to conclusions—erroneous conclusions—and as much as I’m sure you’ve thought this through, you cannot tell me with any degree of certainty how the boy will actually react. Once he knows, we’ll lose him, and we’ll lose him forever, because he will never forgive you for lying to him in the first place. If you’re looking to regain his trust—and the girl’s—why don’t you simply dribble out some of the truth, a version which takes into account some of the blurred lines of—”

  “I’m telling him Lofton’s the Chosen One!” Bill felt his eyes widen, his heart lurching to his throat. Hearing himself say the words was surreal, an admission of the prophecy’s dark underbelly often alluded to but never spoken. He leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the table, holding his forehead in his hands. “Lofton is the Chosen One. Not Felix.”

  “It’s not that simple,” his dad said.

  “It is that simple. The Warning says the Drestian’s the Chosen One and the truth is in the words. I…I didn’t destroy it.” Bill placed a hand lightly on the paper, letting his fingers drift over it, feeling the tiny impressions from the ballpoint. “I know I told you I did. I lied. Now Felix can read it, read it and decide for himself.”

  “William,” his dad said evenly, “if the boy learns Lofton is the Chosen One, he’ll think he’s fighting on the wrong side. You must see that.”

  “I disagree. I’ll explain, and I think he’ll understand, that we live in a gray world and The Warning is as confusing and blurred as everything else in this fucked up universe, and that for twenty centuries, people—good people—have fought and died for the right to live and die on their own terms. He deserves to know the truth.”

  “He’s a teenager, William. He doesn’t understand moral relativism. He doesn’t understand nuance. He sees the world in black and white. Think for a moment about his frame of reference. What does he know? What is his perspective? In what fable, myth, philosophy, religion, story, book or movie is the Chosen One not on the side of the just and the righteous? When has the Chosen One ever been the bad guy? Answer me that, William! It’d be like telling him to read the New Testament and to conclude Jesus is the archenemy of mankind. The Chosen One is always, always, the savior. He will never believe he isn’t fighting on the wrong side.”

  “This isn’t a story, and in the real world, you have to ask yourself what happens if the Chosen One wins.” Bill’s voice grew quiet, and
suddenly he felt tired, weighed down by an unexpected sadness. “We cannot allow Lofton to decide our fate. The world can never be subject to the whims of one man, regardless of who he is, regardless of whether he’s the Chosen One.”

  “The boy will quit on us,” his dad warned. “I think your faith in him is misplaced. He’s too young to think for himself.”

  ‘That’s what I used to believe. Not anymore.” Bill stared blankly at the label on his bottle, listening to the grandfather clock in the hall measuring the passage of time, second by second. No more wasted time, he thought. No more lies. No more deception. It was time to trust his own judgment. It was time to change course.

  “William, please listen to me now,” his dad said softly, ending the long silence. “I know your mind is made up, and there’s nothing I can say to dissuade you. The world changed before our eyes today, and I understand how that must make you feel. I know you’re close to the boy—to Felix—and I know you feel a special connection to him because of your relationship with his mother. I only want you to promise me one thing. Wait until tomorrow. I hear the alcohol in your voice—I’m not judging you. I understand. But if it’s impacting your judgment then you owe it to yourself to wait. Wait until tomorrow, and if your decision is unchanged, then proceed with your plan.”

  Bill finished his beer. “I’m not changing my mind. I’m telling him the truth—the whole truth—and the chips will fall where they fall. Goodbye Dad.”

  Chapter 27

  Lofton

  A blanketing mist had clamped down on Portland’s north side, blending into the dreary overcast skies, the clouds pressing down, hovering near the treetops. The roads in this part of town were narrow, straight and flat. Felix jogged across the lonely side street and cut through an empty parking lot, heading for a trash strewn alley beside an automotive garage. Islands of light suddenly stretched out along the road beyond the alley, pockets of hazy yellow illumination snapping into existence as the streetlamp sensors confused the gloom for nightfall.

  “I think you dropped something,” a voice to his back said.

  Felix spun around and jumped back, hand raised to his shoulder.

  “There’s no need for that,” the man said calmly, his eyes moving to Felix’s hand. The first thing Felix noticed was his T-shirt (simple and white, probably a Hanes), and he thought it strange he wasn’t wearing a coat. Then Felix’s eyes settled on the man’s face and he gasped.

  “Lofton Ashfield,” the man said, grinning, extending his hand. “Please call me Lofton. I’ll be offended if you don’t.”

  Felix’s mind carried him back to last night, standing in front of the chapel with Allison, the sight of her bandaged arm filling him with dread and guilt. ‘Eighty-two stitches,’ she’d said. ‘Think you could’ve gone nuclear a little sooner?’ Then his own voice answered in response, shouting a warning: He knows you’re the Belus. He’s going to kill you. Kill him! Kill him before he kills you! Do it! Kill him! Kill him!

  Fire! Felix thought, and he felt his feet momentarily rise off the ground as every fiber within him surged with power. He directed his hand toward Lofton, his will bent on a single purpose: incineration.

  “Look at me Felix,” Lofton told him. “If I wanted to harm you, do you really think I would’ve bothered with an introduction? I just want to talk. Felix, please lower your hand.”

  He knows me, Felix realized, and something about Lofton calling him by name diminished his focus. His thoughts grew detached and directionless, and then doubt crept into his mind as Lofton’s words struck a chord of clarity. He doesn’t want to harm me? Is that possible? Felix hadn’t heard him approach, so Lofton could have caught him unaware and unprotected, an advantage any adversary would capitalize on if given the opportunity. But Lofton hadn’t attacked. He’d done the opposite. He’d introduced himself and was waiting for Felix to shake his hand. Lofton’s face held no animosity, nothing to suggest his intentions were hostile. So what did Lofton want? What was his objective? Felix wasn’t sure if he dropped his arm out of curiosity or because it seemed like an act of cowardice to set Lofton on fire when he didn’t seem interested in fighting back, but as he did so, Lofton’s features came into full focus and he gaped in wonder.

  Felix had studied every Internet image of Lofton he could find, thousands of photos and hours of YouTube footage, so he knew they looked alike, and Caitlin had even commented on their similarities when Lofton had appeared on the news at a ribbon cutting ceremony last fall. But as he stood there staring at the familiar face, it was almost as if he was gazing into a mirror that accelerates one’s age. From the Journal, he understood Lofton’s mother and his own were sisters. Those were just words, however, curves and lines and dots on a piece of old paper. The face watching him now was real. Flesh and blood. Now he understood—really understood—his relationship to Lofton. They were more than just enemies. They were related. Family. The thought sent a chill up the length of his spine.

  “Can we start over?” Lofton asked, his gaze falling pointedly to his own hand. “A proper greeting, as far as I’m concerned, will always consist of the traditional handshake. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Felix.”

  “How do you know my name?” Felix said, his voice sounding scratchy in his throat. “Who told you?”

  “I’d like to think I know everything about you.”

  Is that true? Felix wondered, his thoughts racing, along with his pulse. It can’t be. He’s bluffing. If he knew about my mom, and that I was the Belus, then I’d already be dead. So then why am I alive? he asked himself. Because he doesn’t know who I am. That’s why. He doesn’t know I’m the Belus. Hesitantly, Felix took his hand and Lofton gave it a firm but polite squeeze. Other than being unusually warm given the near freezing temperature, it felt like the ordinary hand of an ordinary man.

  “Nice day for a walk, don’t you think?” A wry smile flickered across Lofton’s face as he took in Felix’s flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “I also enjoy the cold. It reminds me that I’m…human. That and the feeling of a beautiful woman in my arms.” One side of his mouth curled up in a grin.

  “Uh-huh,” Felix said numbly. Was he joking? Talking about hooking up? Was the Drestian supposed to have a sense of humor?

  “If you’re wondering why I’m not in L.A.,” Lofton said, patting his thigh, “it seems I’ve made a rather miraculous recovery.” He laughed. “I believe you know a thing or two about that. How long do you suppose I should maintain my public limp?” He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow as if inviting Felix to participate in his joke and Felix realized Lofton had in fact been there that day at the quarry (how else would he know Felix never stayed injured for long?). “You know,” Lofton observed, eyes narrowing, “I believe we share a resemblance. Curious. Do you know who your parents are?”

  “I wasn’t adopted,” Felix said defensively. He instantly regretted the way it came out, knowing the forceful reaction made him sound like a liar, but his head was spinning. The congenial and laughing Lofton before him was nothing at all like the diabolical Lofton Felix had created in his head and the dichotomy was disorienting.

  “If I suggested you were, I apologize,” Lofton replied easily. He paused for a moment, watching him. “I’m not your enemy, Felix.”

  What? Of course you’re my enemy. “You killed them,” Felix said accusingly, feeling his face grow warm, and his anger seemed to restore some semblance of his equilibrium. “At the stadium. The Numbered Ones are yours. You’re the leader of the ERA. Not Dirk, he’s just a puppet. The Numbered Ones killed your own people. You killed them just to make the government look bad!”

  “I did,” Lofton admitted without hesitation, and a shadow passed over his face. “Please believe me when I tell you my heart bleeds for them. All of them.”

  He’s admitting it? Felix thought, surprised he hadn’t tried to deny responsibility. He feels bad for them? He saw the despair in Lofton’s eyes and his contriteness stirred Felix’s anger to a frothin
g boil. You can’t kill people and then claim you feel bad about it. That’s not how it works. ‘Isn’t that what you do?’ a voice in his head called out to him, challenging him. Felix ignored it and pressed on. “The Faceman,” Felix said hotly, and an image of a grotesque giant swam before his eyes, “shot kids in the face. Almost a hundred. The Faceman told me that! He was your tester! You did that! You shot a hundred kids in the face! And everything else going on—you’re responsible for that too! The shootings! Poisoning the water!”

  Lofton frowned and nodded his head ruefully. “Do you realize what it requires these days to shock the public’s conscience? A generation ago, the loss of a single child in a school shooting would have transfixed the country for the better part of a year. Today? Losing twenty or thirty children will headline the national news for less than a week. The people are numb to death. Numb to violence. If I had not acted—if I had done nothing—where do you think this society would be in ten years? Twenty years? How many lives would it take for the public to give a damn? To be outraged?”

  “But you killed them!” Felix persisted, infuriated by his pathetic excuses. Was Lofton actually claiming he killed people to save lives? That was ridiculous. When you killed someone, you killed them. They were dead. As simple as that. As plain as night and day. Did Lofton really think he was going to believe this bullshit?

  “Because I had no choice.” Lofton paused, his pale eyes fixing on Felix. “Did you take lives to save your friend at the Cliff Walk?”

  ‘That wasn’t the same!’ Felix wanted to shout back. Or was it? Was self-defense any different than taking an innocent life if the point of it—and the result—was to save others? Did the relative fault or blamelessness of the lives taken determine its justification? Was it irrelevant so long as the benefit outweighed the cost? He shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching a vehicle rumble down the potholed street, the swirling mist haloing red in its wake. The ‘Cliff Walk?’ he thought suddenly, and felt his hand spasm, as if it was about to rise up on its own. He knows about the Cliff Walk. He knows I killed Riley—Lofton’s Drestianite. Felix studied him, telling himself to keep his guard up, though Lofton’s demeanor was unchanged, still pleasant and courteous.