Eclipse the Flame

by Ingrid Seymour

  I wonder what he would think of all of this. How much he would suffer over Mom’s loss? He was the reason she stayed sane after my brother was kidnapped from the NICU. He was the reason I had five wonderful childhood years. I really can’t blame Mom for never thinking I was enough to replace Dad. I’m really not.

  What good would it do to continue? No one. Absolutely no one would miss me if I disappear. Or maybe Luke would. He wanted something from me, begged me to go with him, promised he would help. But it’s a puzzle—one that perhaps is best left unsolved.

  So why not go out with a bang?

  Suicidal ideas flash through my head. Most people die for no reason, so what better fate than to die for a cause?

  Something blinks on my screen. I look up and my hope revives as if hit by a 3000 volt defibrillator.

  $> CONNECTED …

  $> Meet me at Gas Works Park. Midnight. Come alone. A.

  I put a hand over my lips as they curve. My face feels strange with the corners of my mouth stretched in opposite directions. My cheeks are stiff and seem to crack like two patches of arid land. So weird that I still remember how to smile. So utterly right that I don’t care if this meeting is only a trap. I also don’t care that getting out of here will be extremely hard. My life is only worth the risks I’m willing to take to make things right.

  I shut off the computer and go over the different possibilities. There are three ways I can get out of here. I just need to decide which one offers the smallest chance of detection. New ideas bounce through my head, dispelling the fog of my gloomy thoughts.

  Already I feel different, decisive and eager.

  But most of all, full of a kicking-and-screaming type of hope.

  Chapter 34

  This place never sleeps. There are Eklyptors on patrol everywhere, always watching. No one leaves the building without marching orders. No one is trusted 100%, and they’ve got me to thank for that, too. Now anyone can be a traitor, a Symbiot, a mole in their midst.

  They should pay more attention.

  I hold back a chuckle. Nothing seems to be without a sense of irony. I hate myself for what I’ve caused, for the people who have suffered and died. But, at least, I’ve also managed to bring unrest to their lot and, who knows, it could prove beneficial one day.

  I throw off the covers and sit up in bed. Making a big show as I rub my eyes, I shuffle drunkenly toward the bathroom. The large sleeping quarters is dark but for the lamps on a couple of desks. As I pass each bed, I surreptitiously glance at their occupants to make sure they aren’t watching me. Lyra looks dead to the world, so does everyone else.

  On the third bed from the door, a long tail sticks out from under the sheets, drapes over the mattress and falls to the floor. The barbed appendage belongs to a particularly nasty Eklyptor named Lamia who is always giving me malicious glances. She does that to everyone, though, so I don’t take it personally. She seems to have spent all her morphing efforts on her enormous tail as the rest of her body remains untouched.

  When I enter the bathroom, I make sure it’s empty. Satisfied, I lock myself in the last stall and take off the oversized pants and shirt I sleep in. Underneath, I wear my leathers, which aren’t in the best shape after all I’ve been through, but they are, at least, clean. I sneaked out one night and gently washed the pants and jacket in one of the bathroom sinks, then hung them in a broom closet at the end of the hall where they remained untouched and unnoticed until today.

  In spite of all the holes and scrapes in the leather, they smell fresh and, most importantly, they belong to me. They are the only clothes I have from my previous life and, as stupid as it sounds, I feel closer to my real self in them. I’m tired of wearing the nasty uniforms that are delivered to our barracks. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been laundered, not when my clothes have been tumbling alongside Lamia’s or, god forbid, Tusks’s. The thought disgusts me.

  I stuff my sleeping clothes behind the toilet tank. After making sure they’re completely out of sight, I step on the rim of the toilet and haul myself on top of the stall’s partition. As it wobbles under my weight, I position my boots on its thin edge and stretch until I reach the overhead vent. Without its securing screws, the grill comes off easily. It pays being prepared and this escape route has been part of my plan since two days ago when I found the building’s blueprints in one of the file servers.

  I lug myself up the vent, enjoying the pull on my muscles, then set the grid back into place. I take a small flashlight out of my back pocket, click it on and clench it between my teeth. Finding supplies in this place is easy, especially when everyone purposely ignores me for fear of catching my crazy. Being touched in the head is so convenient when you need to swipe useful gear.

  Inside, the vent is wide enough for me to crawl comfortably. I move slowly, though, trying to make as little noise as possible against the metal flashing. There’s no telling how many Eklyptors have enhanced hearing in this place and I’m taking no risks. I can pace my progress. I gave myself enough time.

  Adrenaline courses through my veins and, for the first time in days, I feel truly awake. It feels great to finally get on the move, instead of just sitting in front of the computer.

  After a few turns, I reach the end of the vent where it connects to an elevator shaft. I pull out the small screwdriver I swiped from a maintenance person in the mess hall, and get to work on detaching the grid. I make good time and soon find myself going down a service ladder. At this time, the elevators are stationed on the first floor, so hopefully no huge metal boxes will come whizzing by within inches of my ass.

  Feeling confident, I begin taking the metal rungs two at a time. I’m just getting into a rhythm when my boot slips. I falter, hands grasping desperately. My body slams painfully against the ladder as my hands find purchase. I yelp as the impact knocks out some of the air from my lungs. Hooking my forearm through one of the rungs, I try to catch my breath.

  I’ve barely gotten rid of the cold shiver down my back when the elevator below comes to life with a crank and a whirl.

  “Damn!”

  The cables in the middle of the shaft groan and tremble with tension. I look down, then up. I’m too far to go back. I judge the distance from the wall to the edge of the approaching elevator. There’s barely a one-foot gap between the two, but I’m on the ladder and that about cancels any life-saving space. Oh, hell! I’m going to end up like shaved ice, if I don’t do something.

  I could hop on top of the elevator and catch a ride, but that only guarantees a trip back to Doctor Sting’s chair. I’d rather be smeared like a bug than go back there.

  The elevator is only a few feet away! I almost hear the Muzak playing inside the cabin. As the top of the giant box comes within inches from the soles of my boots, the solution strikes me. With one push, I swing backward, one foot and one hand still hooked to the ladder like hinges. As my back hits the wall, I reach my free leg out and brace my foot to the corner, where the walls meet. I press my body to the wall, turn my face to the side, and make myself as flat as possible.

  The elevator glides right in front of me, taking its sweet time. My legs shake. A white light shines on top of the cabin, casting a ghostly glow that leaves me blinking. When the elevator finally clears me, I swing back onto the ladder, panting. Sweat moistens my forehead. I sigh in relief and start moving before that happens again.

  When I reach the bottom, I do everything I did on my floor, but in reverse. I open another grid, get back into the ventilation system and follow it to the receiving area where delivery trucks unload supplies.

  At the end of the line, I come out through an air vent in a small, dark office. I land in a crouch on padded carpet. Staying low, I move past a desk and sidle to a window next to the door. Through a set of vinyl venetian blinds, I survey the outside. The area looks like a warehouse. There’s a rolling ladder, a forklift, tons of wooden crates stacked on top of each other, and even a military Jeep Wrangler with what looks like a 50 caliber machine gun mou
nted in the back.

  I watch for a few minutes and see no activity. With a deep breath, I turn the knob on the closed door, let it swing open, and step outside. Heading straight, I walk with purposeful steps, as if I belong in this area. From a set of schematics I found while perusing Elliot’s network, I know there are a few cameras down here. So I walk with confidence, telling myself that I won’t raise suspicion if I don’t act suspicious. I stop by a set of crates and pretend to check a few labels. I feel like an idiot. The Eklyptor in charge of monitoring the feeds is probably asleep, too confident in his ivory tower to think anyone would dare do anything illicit.

  But this is the last time I skulk around. My next order of business when I come back—because I have to come back, no matter how much the idea scares and repulses me—will be to hack into the security system and make it my own. I wish I could have gained access to it already, but that server and a few others are guarded behind stricter measures. I’ll break in, though, and next time, I’ll have a security pass with the highest clearance and a way to disable the cameras, so I can be free coming and going as I please. After that, the other extra-secure servers are coming down, too. The additional care they’ve taken in guarding them has me practically salivating to find out what Elliot and his faction are hiding there.

  For now, I have what little I’ve found in a thumb drive. It won’t give IgNiTe much more than Aydan can already get from public records, but it’s something. A peace offering at the very least.

  Heart beating at double speed, I amble down the crate-lined corridors, making my way toward the loading dock where trucks back in with their deliveries. A cool breeze hits my face, alerting me to the open rolling steel door. Relief washes over me. I’d checked the logs and found that a few deliveries were expected tonight. I’m glad to see the information was accurate. Most deliveries happen at night—something to do with conserving gas during low traffic hours.

  I peer around a crate. So far so good. Now I just have to sneak past the two armed guards who are standing at each side of the wide entrance.

  The men are facing the outside. The trees that line the service road sway in the breeze, casting moving shapes onto the concrete. My own shadows poke around the edge of my vision. Automatically, my thoughts jump. The specters disappear almost immediately.

  A pair of headlights approaches down the road. The guards adjust the grip on their weapons. I wait patiently out of “buzzing” range until the delivery truck backs into the loading dock. The guards stand stiffly and at the ready until the driver and his assistant step out of the vehicle. As soon as they recognize the newcomers, the guards relax and boisterously greet them.

  “Hey, Flick,” one of the guards says to the driver. “You’re a sight for thirsty throats. You got my stuff?”

  The driver nods, pulls what looks like a bottle of booze from behind his back and shakes it tauntingly at the guard. “Sure do, what about you?”

  “Right here,” he says, patting his breast pocket.

  So much has changed, yet so little. The same pleasures and vices that have plagued humanity for millennia still endure. It seems that, for some, the urges of the flesh will always overrule the brain. It’s nice to see that, in that way, our humanity can still control them.

  Once the guards get hold of the bottle, they waste no time opening it. I wait as the first guard takes a swig, then reluctantly passes the bottle to his partner. Guns slung over their shoulders, they walk outside, joking and drinking, their worth as guards completely obliterated in the presence of alcohol.

  I tiptoe, staying out of their line of vision and exit on the other side of the delivery truck. There’s a fancy dark sedan parked off to the side. Its polished paint job reflects the streetlights. I run and hide on the other side of the car, squatting. After a moment, I peek around the corner, but the guards are too distracted by their booze to notice anything else. They never even knew I was here. There’s still the matter of sneaking back in, but I’ll worry about that later.

  Right now, I have a date with hope. Without it, nothing else really matters.

  Chapter 35

  The sky is a gray massive cloud, threatening rain. The moon glows behind a fuzzy curtain, diffused, tempered. I sit on a bench, waiting, my buzzing switch flipped on to make sure I sense Aydan’s approach. Lake Union expands before me: a darkened mirror of gently rocking waters. To my left, sprawl six metal giants, old and guarding a history that is all their own. Gas Works Park with its domed-shaped towers is, indeed, an interesting sight.

  We remember so little, forget what really matters and hold on to the wrong things. Here, in this beautiful piece of land at the edge of a magnificent lake, is a post-industrial monument to a dead technology. But what of the lives? What of the people who worked here? Who suffered or laughed? Who are now gone, never to be immortalized by anyone?

  And what now? Now that fewer remain to care and remember?

  A cloud pulls aside and lets a few rays of moonlight fall onto the preserved structures that are the remains of an old coal gasification plant. Metal pipes extend toward the sky. Nozzles protrude from metal edifices that used to be generators or something of the sort. There are picnic tables in what used to be the boiler house where the steam was produced for the process of converting coal into gas for heating or lighting. Such a strange place. Kids play inside what used to be an exhauster building.

  Kids? What of them? I shiver at the thought. How many are infected? How many never stood a chance? And how about the ones who still do? The ones we must keep safe. And what of new generations, especially those born to Eklyptors, meant to always be vessels to parasites?

  Water laps the shore. A salty breeze kisses me. I lick my lips and wait, wait, wait.

  There used to be a 4th of July fireworks display here every year. I came to see it once. I wonder if that will ever take place again. Xave and I had planned to see it together, but that’s one of many things that will never happen.

  My bike clicks behind me as it cools. The sounds are comforting and make me glad I decided to go by the motel to pick it up. After I ran out of Elliot’s headquarters, which to my surprise ended up being in the middle of downtown, right across Pacific Place, I left in a hurry, glancing over my shoulder every two seconds to make sure no one was following me, amazed at the fact that Whitehouse was operating from that location well before The Takeover. They hid in plain sight. All along.

  Once I felt safe, I found a van in a public parking lot, hot-wired it, and drove it to the fleabag motel where I’d left my ride. The place looked as deserted as the last time I was there, and I had no trouble getting in and out. In fact, most of the city looked deserted, though there was plenty enough proof of the chaos that marked the first few days of The Takeover.

  I rode cautiously through streets that actually felt like minefields, with their scattered debris: rolled over cars (some still spewing acrid smoke,) felled traffic lights, discarded ballistic police shields, an alarming amount of castoff shoes. It took me twice as long as it should have to get here, but I feel lucky no one jumped me demanding to know my faction allegiance—though a small pack of dogs scared the crap out of me, barking like lunatics when I interrupted their systematic attack of a large garbage bag. Most of them bared their teeth and yapped until I was out of sight; though the smallest looked at me with sad brown eyes that seemed to beg for a bowl full of kibbles.

  I check my watch. It’s already fifteen minutes past midnight. I stand and look around. The wind whistles as it blows past the rusted-looking monument.

  “Where are you, Aydan?” I whisper.

  I rub my hands together, trying not to come to any conclusions, but they pop inside my head anyway, like heated popcorn kernels.

  Maybe this was a joke and he never intended to meet me. Maybe he was captured, hurt, killed on his way here.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and let my thoughts jump in other, less gloomy directions—more out of habit than due to a present threat.

 
Wile E. Coyote runs by the bottom of a cliff and gets smashed by a rock.

  He always seems to make an appearance in my mental images. Not good. I can’t let my thoughts get predictable and make it easier for the shadows to figure out a pattern. Not that the agent has felt particularly threatening lately.

  God, how I hate all the maybes. I’d like more certainty.

  I wait for another fifteen minutes and still he doesn’t show. Feeling defeated and betrayed, I stand to leave. Maybe there is an explanation why he isn’t here. Maybe he’ll give me another chance. I walk to the lakefront and gaze into the water. I think of the whole world drowning, of only a few untainted humans remaining. Maybe they would survive and repopulate the earth. Or maybe they would kill each other. It’s a toss-up.

  I whirl at the sound of footsteps behind me. Someone coming from the old gas plant.

  Aydan!

  I recognize his gait. He’s been here all along, hiding by the towers, probably watching me, trying to determine if this is a trap and if it’s safe to get close. I wonder how he got there. His car wasn’t in the parking lot. He must have left it somewhere else and walked.

  Just as my head begins to buzz with his presence, he stops.

  “Hey,” he says. He’s dressed all in black, a hood over his head, a backpack strapped around his shoulders. One hand is inside his hoodie, the other one making a fist at his side. Under the shade of his hood, his expression is unreadable.

  “You came,” I say.

  “I had to.” There’s no doubt in his voice. This is something he had to do.

  I nod. “Have you been there the whole time?” I gesture toward the plant.