The Search for Artemis (The Chronicles of Landon Wicker)

by Griffith, P. D.

  When Riley noticed that Landon had opened his eyes, he hesitantly stood up and walked over to the bed, but he didn’t say anything. The nurse finished her examination. After sliding Landon’s chart into its holder, she turned to Landon and gave him her assessment.

  “Landon Wicker,” the nurse said, “you appear to be fine, but we’re going to request that you remain overnight for observation. When you were knocked unconscious”—she gave Riley an accusatory glance—“you hit your head pretty hard on the floor. We need to make sure you didn’t suffer a concussion or any other possible injuries.”

  Landon nodded in understanding. The nurse, after giving Landon a gentle pat on the shoulder, left the room through the open door.

  “My bad, man,” Riley said as he gave Landon a brotherly shove with his arm.

  “I was trying to help you, you know?” Landon returned derisively. He wanted to just say he understood and that everything was all right between them, but after the past few weeks, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Landon was more than a little aggravated that he had ended up in the medical wing not from his training, or from the Cranes, but due a rogue punch from the person he was trying to help. The pain that was pulsing from the impact point on the side of his head only made him less forgiving.

  “I didn’t mean to. The twins, they knocked my tray out of my hands when I was walking by, and I just snapped. And when I hit you, uh, I wasn’t even looking. I just kind of swung with everything I had.”

  “Well, you really should look where you’re punching next time. Seriously!” Landon snapped back. “And why would the Cranes be messing with you?”

  Riley was taken aback, but his shock turned to contempt.

  “Cuz I’m not you! . . . And you know what? Don’t worry about me!” he barked. “Next time, don’t come butting into my business. Just stay out of it! Stick to your oh-so-secret techniques at your oh-so-special training and I’ll just stay as I am! You know, you’re not as special as you think you are Landon. I’m done! Got it?”

  “There it is!” Landon was exasperated and sat up in his medical bed. “It always comes back to the training! Whatever happens, you just can’t let it go!”

  “Oh,” Riley interrupted, “I’ve let it go! You know what? . . . I’m not sorry I hit you. You deserved it!” His face red with anger, Riley turned on the spot and stormed out of the examination room.

  “You know, maybe if you weren’t such a whiny little baby, they would’ve wanted you too!” Landon yelled as Riley disappeared through the door.

  Landon fell back onto his pillows with a huff. He was so mad that he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Trying to lower his blood pressure and calm down, he closed his eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath. He was surprised he had gotten so worked up. After the blood left his face and returned to a normal color, Dr. Brighton entered the room looking angry. His brows were furrowed and his lips pursed, and after shutting the door behind him, he immediately crossed his arms over his puffed up chest.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asked.

  Landon suddenly became aware of himself. A glob of spit formed in his mouth that he couldn’t seem to swallow, his arms and legs tingled, and a faint buzzing started to ring in his ear. No I don’t, he thought.

  Not knowing what to say, he blurted out, “They say I’ll be all right, in case you were wondering.”

  “You insolent child,” Dr. Brighton said as he rushed to the bed and leaned over Landon, his arms pressed deep into the mattress to hold himself up while he got close to Landon’s face. “You could have exposed us all,” Dr. Brighton said in a low yet forceful volume, so no one would overhear. He was enraged. The muscles in his face were all tense, and his eyes were locked on Landon’s, boring deep into his soul.

  “What are you talking about?” Landon asked as he tried to sink deeper into his pillows and put a little distance between Dr. Brighton and himself.

  “The code names are to only be used during missions and under the security of the Olympic Tower. What were you thinking calling the Cranes Castor and Pollux in the cafeteria, especially when the entire student body was in attendance?”

  At the time, Landon hadn’t even realized it, but as Dr. Brighton told him what he had done, his mind wandered back to the memory of being in the cafeteria and screaming for Joshua and Jeremiah to stop, using their Pantheon code names as he pushed the two off Riley.

  “I knew you weren’t ready,” Dr. Brighton said as he pushed himself off the bed and paced the room. “I told them it was a mistake.”

  “Dr. Brighton, I’m sorry,” Landon pleaded. He felt awful, but Dr. Brighton didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to pace the room with his hand resting on his chin, deep in thought. Landon assumed he was deciding his fate. Was it that easy to kick someone off the Pantheon? What would happen after? Did they have a strange contraption that could wipe his memory of any knowledge of the secret team?

  “Professor,” Landon interjected forcefully. It worked, albeit not exactly as planned for when Dr. Brighton turned and faced him, his expression made it clear he was in no mood for games and that his patience was waning—fast. Landon fought to continue, “I, uh . . .” Landon suddenly felt dizzy and nauseated. The ringing in his ears had grown to a painful volume. “I, uh . . .”

  “What is it Landon?” Dr. Brighton asked. “Spit it out.”

  “I . . .”

  Before Landon could continue, his vision went blurry, his body went limp, and he passed out.

  A minute later, Landon regained consciousness. It took him a moment to acclimate to his surroundings; he felt a bit groggy and confused. Looking particularly concerned, Dr. Brighton stood over Landon, checking his eyes and asking him simple questions, like What’s your name? and What year is it? Then the nurse sped back into his room.

  “Landon,” she said as she pushed Dr. Brighton aside and began unlocking the wheels to the bed, “I’m taking you to get a CT scan. It appears you may have some internal brain injuries.”

  He watched blearily as the nurse gripped the bed and moved it down the hall. It was a strange experience; he watched the roof and walls as they flew by, but the nurse’s torso and head remained stationary, as if she was a statue. Her legs would have told a different story entirely, but before Landon could even process what was happening, he was in the computed tomography scanner at the east end of the medical wing.

  “It would seem that you’ve suffered a concussion with a minor amount of bruising that has caused your brain to swell slightly,” Dr. Márquez stated matter-of-factly after turning away from the series of images of Landon’s brain that were secured in the light box fixed to the back wall. “Unfortunately for you, we’re not going to be able to discharge you until we see the swelling go down.”

  Dr. Márquez turned, glancing at Dr. Brighton, who was standing a few paces back from the bed, and continued, “Dr. Brighton tells me that you two were having a pretty intense conversation when you fell unconscious. I’m afraid that may have increased your blood pressure enough to cause you to pass out. As a result, I’m going to recommend that you have no visitors until you’ve recovered. Until I can feel confident that you’ve improved, all I can ask of you is to rest.”

  “But—” Landon started, but he stopped mid-rebuttal after looking at Dr. Brighton, whose face informed him there was no way he would be able to persuade the doctor of a different treatment. Defeated, Landon closed his mouth and fell dejectedly back onto his pillow.

  As Dr. Márquez and the nurse left the room, Dr. Brighton stepped over to the bed and rested his hand onto Landon’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry about earlier. I’m your CO; I should’ve controlled my temper.” He gave Landon’s shoulder a little pat and headed out of the room, but just before he reached the door, he turned and added, “Get better . . . Apollo”

&nb
sp; The room was uncomfortably silent. Landon tended to like being alone, but for some reason, his forced seclusion in the medical wing was different. He felt constricted under the sheets of his bed, fidgety and bored. His head did still hurt a bit though, and he felt a little drowsy, so he turned on his side and closed his eyes, hoping he might be able to sleep through the majority of his medical imprisonment.

  • • • • •

  Landon jumped up from his pillow. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. He was sleeping dreamlessly when a bloodcurdling scream echoed through his head. It resonated with the same pain as his mother’s scream in his old nightmares, but this one wasn’t from his mother—the voice was masculine.

  He looked around the room, searching for some explanation, but nothing seemed to be out of place. The lights in the medical wing had dimmed to a low, pale yellow, telling him that it must be nighttime. He couldn’t be sure, though; there were no windows that looked out on the valley for him to check through. All he could do was stare into the hallway through the slats of the blinds.

  He could only see the doorframe and window of the examination room across the hall from his. It was dark inside; the lights were off. The entire medical wing seemed abandoned. He couldn’t hear any rushing steps or muffled voices, no one was running by his window screaming “Code Blue!” or some other medical code. He couldn’t even hear any more screams.

  Putting his hands behind his head, Landon lowered himself back onto his pillow. He stared pensively up at the ceiling, wondering if he had heard the scream, or if it was just a dream.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WHAT'S BEHIND DOOR 132?

  “Dr. Márquez, is there a way I can get a book or something?” Landon asked. “Leaving me in here with nothing has to be against the Geneva Convention or something. I mean Dantès had a palace at Château d’If compared to what I’m dealing with here.”

  Landon was stir-crazy. After waking up from the mysterious scream, he had difficulty sleeping. It also didn’t help that in trying to get comfortable, he had rolled over numerous times and felt a sharp pain course through his body when the bruised side of his face pressed against the pillow. At seven in the morning, the lights of his room returned to their full brightness, and at that point, Landon realized he had missed an entire night’s sleep. He started to get up to take a shower and clean himself up a bit, but that was made impossible by the IV sticking out of his arm, so he fell back onto the bed and laid still until someone came.

  Around eight o’clock, the nurse entered the room carrying a tray of food for Landon to eat for breakfast. She placed the tray on a rolling table and wheeled it over to Landon. As he ate with one hand, the nurse took his pulse and checked his blood pressure while asking him questions about how he was feeling. She then wrote a few things on his chart and proceeded to take out the IV. He seemed to be getting better, but the nurse told him he would have to wait until the doctor discharged him before he could leave.

  In the interim, Landon occupied his time by pacing around the room and checking himself in the mirror. He was already developing a pretty substantial black eye. Touching the side of his face, he attempted to make a personal assessment of the damage. Now that there had been a night for the injury to set in, the entire side of his face hurt, from nose to ear and hairline to chin. He wasn’t sure how much of it was caused by Riley’s punch or his collision with the floor. Whichever it was, it really didn’t matter; he was stuck in the medical wing either way. One thing was certain; he was thankful that the side of his face seemed only slightly puffy. It was nothing compared to the swelling Riley endured after Landon had hit him with that ball in Telekinetics training last fall.

  There are only so many times people can look at themselves without feeling vain and narcissistic. Landon also discovered that aimlessly pacing makes one more restless. In hopes of finding something else to occupy his time, he had scoured the cabinets and closets, only to find an assortment of medical supplies and a few extra pairs of white patient outfits. A few times he had to sit down for a minute as he started to feel a bit dizzy, but the feeling would soon pass and he would return to complete boredom. He was stuck in a white room with white walls, and there was no television, no computer and no books—nothing to make time go by faster. It was his personal hell.

  Dr. Márquez didn’t come and check on him until just before noon. By that time, Landon had created a pyramid of cotton balls on the tabletop. Rushing to complete his assessment, the doctor skimmed Landon’s chart, examined his face, checked his brain responsiveness and then left the room. The only words Dr. Márquez spoke were, “See you tomorrow,” as he closed the door.

  That night the screams returned, jolting Landon awake from his much-needed sleep. Again, the medical wing looked void of activity. The lights were dimmed and Landon couldn’t hear any voices or noise of any kind in the hallway, but it couldn’t have been a coincidence that the screams were recurring.

  Landon slinked out of his bed, placing his feet on the floor softly so as not to make a sound that would alarm the orderlies. With silent footsteps, he made his way to the door and gently turned the handle. It let out a small click as it unlatched. Landon pulled the door toward him, opening it just enough to allow himself to peer into the hallway.

  It was empty. The lights along the ceiling had been dimmed to a minimal level, casting an ominous shadow over the length of the medical wing. An inexplicable chill ran down Landon’s spine.

  Then he heard it, a low muffled tone coming from down the hallway. It was barely audible, but it was there—a man’s voice. Landon couldn’t make out what he was saying. Landon pulled the door open a little more and delicately maneuvered himself into the hallway. He had to know where the noise was coming from. Who was sending the awful screams into his head in the middle of the night?

  His stealth training for the Pantheon proved rather useful. He stayed to the shadows, moved silently, and kept himself totally aware in order to react to any unanticipated arrivals.

  As he moved closer, the voice became louder, but it was still muffled by the medical wing’s walls, making it unintelligible. A minute later, he stopped outside the door of the room he believed the voice to be coming from—Room 132. It was the same room where Landon’s final test had been administered during his initial examinations. The memory of the drug-induced reliving of his apocratusis flooded into his brain, and he couldn’t help but look away from the room that held such awful memories.

  The man’s voice started again. Hoping to use his abilities and sense who was inside, Landon closed his eyes and began to concentrate. There were two people inside, but just as Landon began to achieve some enhanced clarity, a scream bombarded his brain, blaring at such an excruciating level within his mind that Landon let out an audible cry of his own pain and surprise.

  Before he knew it, he heard a set of footsteps moving toward the door; he had blown his cover. Sacrificing some of his stealth, he moved quickly and quietly back to his room. In the last moments, as he pressed his door closed, he heard the door of Room 132 open.

  Landon rushed back to his bed and curled up in the sheets. His second night in the medical wing was as restless as his first.

  • • • • •

  “Are there any other patients in here besides me?” Landon asked Dr. Márquez during his checkup the following morning.

  Dr. Márquez lifted his head from Landon’s chart and looked at him oddly for a moment before answering. “Nope, you’re the only one. The Gymnasium makes it a point to maintain high safety standards to avoid injuries like yours. So there’s only ever one or two patients at a time.”

  There was something strange about Dr. Márquez’s delayed response that made Landon suspect he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Perhaps Landon wasn’t supposed to be asking questions, but now he felt certain there was someone else down the hall. However, he couldn’t let Dr.
Márquez think he knew anything about the screaming man. He needed to think fast and make the motivation behind his question appear innocent. “It’s just that you only check on me once a day and you seem rushed at that. What else are you doing if you don’t have any other patients?”

  Dr. Márquez smiled. “Well, I spend the majority of my time working on highly sensitive molecular research, and my experiments have some extreme timing constraints that require constant vigilance and attention. Dr. Longfellow is the resident physician at the Gymnasium. I’m just helping him while he deals with more pressing matters.”

  “So there is another patient in here?” Landon couldn’t help himself but ask.

  “Uh . . . Umm . . . No.” Dr. Márquez fumblingly replied.

  • • • • •

  “Help me.” The voice blew in and out of Landon’s resting mind like a passing breeze. He didn’t bolt upright in his bed as he did when the screams blared in his mind, but he just lay still and opened his eyes. They darted around the room, searching for the source. No one was there, but then the voice returned. “Help me.” It was there for only a second before disappearing into the darkness of his mind.

  Like the night before, Landon rose out of bed and moved through the medical wing as stealthily as possible. He made his way straight for Room 132. Hoping to hear someone inside, he pressed his ear to the door, but heard nothing.

  “Help me,” the voice repeated in Landon’s mind. The man sounded old. There was a deepness and resonance about it that Landon imagined could only come with great age and experience, but the man also sounded pitiful and desperate.