“That’s better. Now, without further ado, let’s get started.”
Three drummers appeared on the far right, playing paradiddles on their snare drums. A woman behind them in a frilly white gown wheezily accompanied the drummers with some sort of flute. On the other side of the field was a line of men marching on the spot, large iron cannons waiting behind them.
Kurt felt Emily’s grip tighten. “See, it’s not so bad,” he whispered into her ear. She shrugged, her eyes wide.
Kurt scanned the field from left to right and back again, taking in the anachronistic spectacle before him. It was a sight to see. The drummers built their volume as the various brass instruments tooted their riffs. Teachers and students alike held up their phones to film the show. An old couple in evening fancy-folk attire held hands as a young boy, no older than ten, lifted a selfie stick to their faces and snapped their photos. Somewhere in all the noise, a baby began to cry.
“Shoot them!” Ewan screamed from behind, holding up his toy gun. “Shoooot them!”
The two sides marched a few steps closer to each other, steps synchronised with the drum beats. They prepared their guns, aimed at the sky and fired. The reports were greeted by monstrous applause. The man on the horse held three fingers high, mouthing the countdown that would lead to the charge.
“Three,” the crowd chorused, “two, one!”
The reds and the blues roared as they opened pretend-fire on each other. They shouted and bellowed as the smoke poured out of their muskets. The iron cannons broke the skies with their thunderous blows and poured white smoke onto the battlefield. The air quickly hazed and the thick caustic smell of it reached their noses within minutes. Frankie and his cronies screamed for more. Frankie tore Ewan’s toy gun from his hand and opened his own brand of pretend-fire. Jessica and Kaitlin were cheering at the top of their lungs. As a couple of the actors dropped to the floor, feigning gunshot wounds, Kurt felt hands grabbing at his wrist and realised that Emily had ducked under his arm at the sound of the ear-popping noises.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, taking a deep breath of her hair. He could smell bubblegum amidst the strawberry, and something that smelt like apple.
“I don’t like it, I don’t like it,” she whimpered. Kurt cradled her, unsure what to do. His forehead rested on hers and before he could think of what he was doing he planted a small kiss in the centre. She looked up, glossy eyed, with a puzzled expression. Kurt went to withdraw, but Emily leaned forwards and kissed his lips.
Kurt’s heart ran a marathon as he felt the smooth moistness of Emily’s lips on his own. He had never kissed a girl before – at least, not in real life. It was easier than he had thought. He saw her eyes close and closed his own, losing himself in the moment. Was this all really happening? Could he let himself believe that he was actually kissing Emily, in public, and she was kissing him back?
Wait ’til Amy hears about this.
Kurt could’ve stayed in the moment forever, who cared about anyone else around them? But then, he heard mutters behind him whispering, “Who’s that?” “Where’s his costume?” “What’s he wearing?” “What’s in the bag?” Then came a woman’s scream.
The drummers, the flute, the brass faded to a stop. The field went deathly silent as all eyes turned to the shaggy-looking man stood in the centre of the field. A cylinder of gold at his feet as he bent down and reached into his bag.
5
Donny skidded across the gravelled car park, leaving a trail of dust. Lucas didn’t bother to find an empty space. The minute the car stopped he opened the door and began running up the stairs to the Visitor Center.
He looked up at the clock tower and saw that it had just passed 3pm. If his understanding was correct, it should be noisy as hell right about now. Gunshots firing, music playing, crowds cheering. That was a reenactment, right? But it was silent. Silent enough to make his mind almost slow him down as he passed through the first set of doors into the Center. Tiny doubts whispered, telling him that maybe he was crazy after all.
It was a dreeeam, Lucas. Nothing mooore.
He continued running anyway, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors around the large building. On either side were small outlets that sold various merchandise and foods. At the front was a desk which Lucas presumed usually had staff who checked tickets, and gave information to eager tourists and history enthusiasts. But there was no one there today. He paused for a moment, wondering where they were, then looked ahead and saw several people in old-timey outfits staring out a window at the far end of the building. He ran over. “Excuse me? Hey, are you listening?”
Four women and two men. None of them turned. When Lucas reached them and followed their line of sight to the field beyond, he understood why.
“Shit…”
There was a loud noise behind him as doors crashed wide open. Lucas turned to see two men in khaki uniforms, tasers ready, looking wildly around for the man that had sped through security and gatecrashed the Center. Clearly with no idea of what was on the other side of the glass.
“There he is,” the one with a chunky beard who looked like he ate bears for breakfast said to the other as they stepped towards him.
Lucas turned on his heels and made his way to the doors that opened to the battlefield, his concern mostly occupied with the idea of taking 50,000 volts through his body. With a thud, the doors swung open and Lucas hopped down the steps two at a time. He reached the bottom and looked back as the two guards halted at the top of the stairs. One mumbled something to the other, and Lucas could just make out the word ‘backup’. But they, like the several hundred people on the field, quickly joined the throng of wide-eyed faces focusing their attention in the centre of the green.
Lucas felt a lump rise in his throat. You were right, Freddy-boy. I wish you weren’t, but damn it, you were right…
A haggard man was bent low next to a cylinder of glass which held a golden liquid that shimmered in the sun. His hair looked greasy, unkempt, and his beard was a mottled mix of browns, gingers, and greys. His clothes were shabby, and even from a distance, Lucas could see his hands were covered in grime, too. Certainly not the attire of an historic reenactment actor. While the man looked in his bag, Lucas took a few careful steps forwards. When he reached the back of the crowd sat cross-legged along the edge of the field, he heard the gentle sobs of a woman as she breathed through a handkerchief.
That better not be what I think it is, Lucas thought to himself, studying the liquid. The colour, the hue, it all looked too familiar. But then, a lot of liquids are coloured gold, right?
The man found what he was looking for and pulled a long, thick wire from the bag with what looked to be a switch on the end. There was a loud gasp as dozens of people’s fears were confirmed. It didn’t matter whether people had ever seen them in real life before, the fact was that it was a bomb. Plain and simple. A one button click that’d send everyone flying backwards as the ground singed and burned. The bomber stood up straight, wiped a clumsy hand across his forehead to clear the hair from his eyes, and scanned the crowd. When he reached Lucas, their eyes locked. Lucas gasped.
You? I know you…
For a brief second recognition flitted across the bomber’s face. A small smile played on his lips, before someone at the front of the crowd shouted, “Well if nobody else is going to do anything…”, stood up and charged towards the bomber.
There was an explosive sound, followed by several screams. At the far end of the field a horse whinnied. The man collapsed to the floor, his shirt stained with his own blood. The bomber held his smoking gun steady in his spare hand and arced it across the crowd.
“Any more brave soldiers out there?”
No one replied.
“No? Good,” he said, clumsily holstering his gun in his jacket pocket. He took a deep breath. “I’m going to keep this brief. I’m going to keep this simple,” the man said as if reciting from memory, addressing the crowd as a preacher might their congregation. “There
is a world beyond this one, friends. A world in which the shallow pool of life makes way to an ocean of immortality. There are those that deserve life, there are those that deserve death.” He turned to the actors in colonial dress. “Brave men have suffered needlessly for the weak. We’ve seen it. Our country was founded by those men that fought and died to give us our freedom, our independence. I ask of all of you, now. Is that really fair?”
He paused, letting the words sink in. Lucas wondered if the man really expected a reply.
“If there was a solution to death, would it not be fair to grant that to everyone?” he continued. “To give humanity a chance at an unending life? If there was a world in which we could live on forever, never ageing, never losing loved ones, would it not be fair to make that a reality?” He kneeled next to the golden cylinder and gave it a loving pat.
“Well, friends. I give you the key…”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing!” Lucas called. There was a ripple of quiet murmurs as a few heads looked in his direction, most from men and women, fathers and mothers who stared up with glassy eyes.
The bomber’s smile faltered.
“What you’re talking about… this… ‘immortality’, it’s not what you think at all. Death is something that comes to us all, in time. It’s not on us to decide who lives, and who dies. No one is meant to stay in the tunnel that leads to the light. That’s not what RevitaGo is for.”
Silence.
The bomber stood up slowly, this time his smile stretched across his face. “Oh, Mr Dixon. If only you knew the truth.” He raised the hand with the switch to the sky and puffed his chest. “For liberty. For salvation…”
Lucas, alongside several others that could see what was about to happen, threw themselves to the ground. He just about heard the man’s final words. Words that sent ice shooting through his body, and memories of the past flashing through his mind.
“… For Lazarus,” the man said, closing his eyes.
And then he pressed the button.
6
The effect was instantaneous. Those closest to the blast were thrown backwards, some flying several feet into the air. A white hot orb of heat formed from the centre of the cylinder before pulsing outwards, raining fragments of glass in all directions. A couple of unfortunate spectators in the front rows were killed instantly as shards pierced through the skin and penetrated vital organs. Others were not so lucky, the glass slicing their flesh and letting the blood spill slowly. One girl in particular had a large gash across her hip and thigh and silently screamed as she tried in vain to stem the bleeding. Unaware that her father lay dead at her side.
The liquid itself boiled and exploded into a fine mist that mushroomed up into the sky, before growing in size and spreading outwards, already working its way into the atmosphere. After only a few seconds the entire battlefield was lost to a golden fog, with minuscule droplets working their way down the throats of those panicking with hurried breaths.
Screams came from every angle. In seconds, people began to run blindly, bashing into each other, throwing others out the way, screaming for their loved they had lost. The bleachers that hosted the Jamestown High School kids were overturned in the force of the blast, knocking the lucky kids in all directions, with the unlucky others finding themselves trapped beneath the heavy iron frame.
Kurt, although he did not feel it then, was one of the fortunate ones.
When the blast came, one of the colonial actors had been pushed backwards, knocking straight into Kurt and pushing him clear as the bleachers toppled. Now, Kurt struggled with the weight of the dead man that had acted as his human shield. He wormed out from beneath him and felt the man flop to the floor, a length of something metal sticking out of the poor guy’s chest. Kurt clapped his hands to his mouth and stumbled backwards.
It was impossible to make out the extent of the damage. How far did the mist spread? Was anything on fire? His eyes soon grew sore from moist air, and his ears rang from the explosion. He swirled around on the spot, trying to find some permanent fixture that he could use as a point of reference, but the mist was so close, acting as a curtaining fog, and all that he could see were silhouetted shapes of bodies on the floor. Not all dead, however. Some were crawling. He heard cries and shouts as survivors looked for loved ones.
“Help! Please… My leg!”
Kurt turned on the spot and headed towards the voice. Waving his hand in front of him he tried to clear a line of vision as he stumbled towards the ghostly looking frame of the bleachers. He was sure it had come from there.
“Hello?” he said to the mist.
“Who’s there… is that… Kurt? Kurt? Please… help!”
“Emily!” Kurt found Emily on the ground, her leg caught under one of the bleacher’s steel bars. On top of the frame, laying at odd angles, the bodies of Kurt’s classmates were slumped, limbs hanging limply over the edge adding to the weight that piled on top of Emily. Only a few feet from him he thought he could see Kaitlin bent in a Z shape between the seats. Though he couldn’t be sure. She was face down and it looked like her hair was covered in a dark tar. He threw his hand back over his mouth as his stomach heaved.
“Kurt? What’s wrong? Please, help…”
Kurt looked at Emily and saw the panic in her eyes. He took a couple deep breaths, squatted, grabbed the steel bar in both hands, and pulled and pulled until his arms shook and his back shouted. He paused, tried with all his might to lift the frame, but there was no give. It hadn’t moved a millimetre.
He bent down and grabbed her hand. “Everything’s going to be okay, Emily. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here, I promise. Everything’s going to—”
“Are they…” Emily trailed off, nodding to where Sarah Bonner, a heavy-framed girl with a promise of a great future in economics, lay on the seats above Emily, her head to one side. A trail of blood running off her forehead and dripping onto the ground next to Emily. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word – ‘dead?’
“No. Just knocked out, I think. Look, I think I may have to go and find some help, I’m not strong enough to lift it alone. Just wait here and I’ll be back in a second. I promise!”
He went to dash off but Emily grabbed his sleeve. She pulled him to the ground with surprising strength, her still-perfect face turning ghostly pale as her pants leg continued to thicken with blood. “You know I’ve always… I mean I’ve always thought that… I mean, I like you, Kurt Alder.” Her words became faint as the shock began to catch up to her. Each breath was followed by a wincing as some inner part of her collapsed under the weight. “I like you a lot… I was just always too scared.”
“Emily…”
Her body began to shake. She struggled to keep her eyes locked onto Kurt’s.
“I just had to tell you is all. I just…”
Tears broke through and she started to sob.
“It’s okay, Emily. I promise. You’re going to be okay.”
She nodded and let go of his sleeve. Kurt stood and left her to the shadows.
*
Lucas knelt in the spot where the bomber had been. The ground was still warm from the explosion, and there were body parts scattered nearby that he forced himself to ignore. He was dimly aware of the hysteria just out of sight in the fog – footsteps, calls, and tears – but gave it no further thought. His mind racked for an answer.
There was an almost perfect ring of blackened grass around where the bomb had been. Lucas scanned as far as he could see (which wasn’t far at all) and saw a small rectangle of white plastic next to what looked to be a shoe with its fleshy contents still sizzling inside.
‘For Lazarus’, those had been his words. But how? Lucas wondered as he scooped up the card and pocketed it, taking in a deep breath of the mist. Not too far to his right was something that looked oddly like a hairy football with eyes, a nose, and half a mouth – the remains of the bomber’s head.
A sudden urge to vomit rose. He took a couple more breaths, cle
ared his mind, wiped his eyes, and gritted his teeth. The desire passed. He furrowed his brow.
There was work to do.
Wandering the field, he tried to assess the damage. It was bad. Not the worst thing that Lucas had ever seen, mind you. But it wasn’t great. All around, troupes of distraught families and friends appeared as silhouettes through the fog. These he approached first, offering help. But none seemed interested in taking up the offer. In a way, he didn’t blame them. They were scared. That was understandable. He heard people sobbing to families on their phones. He saw children walking around by themselves, their faces grimy with tear-stained tracks. A couple of people blindly staggered about, reminding Lucas of the Walking Dead show that he’d seen on television. Some even groaned like them.
“Please… please, sir. My son… I don’t… I’ve lost him…” A woman flew out of the fog and pawed at Lucas’ collar. Her eyes stained yellow – likely from the chemical – and she had puddles of crimson collected in the tear ducts.
Lucas eased the woman off him and tried his best to calm her. He eventually gathered that her son had been blasted away in the explosion. But she’d told him as they arrived that if they were to separate they should meet at the Visitor Center, by the gift shop with the plushy eagles. She had been wandering in circles trying to find her way there and wondered if her son had too.
Lucas held her hand, noting that her skin felt like ice. He pointed her in the direction that he believed the Center to be, told her to keep on straight, and sent her on her way.
*
Navigating through the mist was a nightmare. Every breath felt heavy and clammy. The golden droplets collected on his tongue and he found himself trying not to swallow. A strange, acrid taste of stale beef clung to the air. As he walked around the battlefield he found himself thinking that maybe this was what it was like back then, all those years ago. The aftermath of the war when the injured were lost amidst the bodies and the loved ones lamented with screams and wails. Kurt passed several clusters of people in the mist. Their bodies looking spectral in the golden glow. But no one spared the little lost boy the time of day. They had their own problems.
Lazarus: Enter the Deadspace Page 3
