Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

  Dozens of other giant, gray pyramids dot the landscape, rising majestically above us.

  The commotion we heard from a distance is getting louder and soon we can make out individual yells. It sounds like a battle.

  I continue to steer us in the direction of the sound, but we still can’t see anything except the pyramids, which are staggered in such a way that they block the view in every direction once you’re in their midst.

  “We’re close,” Tristan says. “Get ready.”

  Ready for what? I have no idea, but I nod anyway. We pass a final pyramid and abruptly our vision opens to a wide open rock slab plain. A half-constructed pyramid stands a ways off. In front of the pyramid: chaos—the source of the noise.

  A mob of prisoners are fighting the guards, who are using long whips and Tasers to hold them off. None of them have guns. Clearly the intention is to hurt, not to kill.

  But the guards aren’t doing so well. We pull to a stop, and as we watch, one of the guards is bashed over the head by a shirtless guy wielding a rock. A prisoner. His body is covered in scars, some dark and ancient, and others fresh—some even ooze bright red blood.

  There are hundreds of prisoners, all of whom are in a similar condition. None of the men wear shirts and they all have various injuries, likely caused by the sting of the guards’ whips. The women wear ratty tank tops and sport similar welts and gashes. But they’ve had enough.

  The revolt is ultraviolent and for a few minutes we watch in awe as the prisoners start to gain an advantage. Although the inmates are taking a beating, the guards are dropping fast, being pelted with stones or bludgeoned by bare fists, a result of the overwhelming force that’s gathered to defy them.

  The camp name suddenly makes sense. The Stones: the massive stone blocks used to construct the pyramids—they were likely constructed off the backs of the prisoners, a pointless exercise that appears to have no purpose other than to inflict pain. The Blood: the prisoners provide that when abused by the guards.

  Now the guards’ blood is mixed with the prisoners.

  Our timing is remarkable. That we arrive during such an event is incredible, to say the least. The timing is no mistake: the Star Dwellers’ rebellion has encouraged the prisoners to revolt, too.

  “Do you see him?” Tristan asks.

  “Who?” I say, watching the brutality with morbid curiosity.

  “I don’t know, your dad maybe?”

  Duh. The whole purpose of our being here. I scan the mob, hoping to see his dark mop of hair and neatly trimmed mustache amongst the prisoners. I don’t think about what it might mean if he’s not amongst the fighters.

  I think my eyes sweep past him three or four times before I recognize him. Subconsciously, I know it’s him, because my gaze keeps returning to one spot, but my mind fails to believe what my brain registers. His black hair is long and disheveled, down to his shoulders; his mustache is accompanied by a thick, black beard, covering the better half of his face; his uncovered body, always strong from his work in the mines, glistens with sweat and blood and is as hard as the stones he’s forced to work with.

  But there’s no mistaking his eyes. Emerald green and piercing, like mine. Exactly like mine. Looking into them has always been like looking into a mirror for me.

  When he happens to turn toward me, searching for a guard to fight, he spots me and our eyes lock. I don’t know if he thinks I’m a mirage, a misfire of one of the thousands of synapses in his brain, but he just stands there staring at me. His shoulders slump as if even seeing a mirage of me is too painful for him to bear.

  I wave at him.

  His head perks up and his head cocks to the side. I guess maybe he doesn’t think a mirage can wave. Whatever the case, he takes off running to me. I charge toward him, wild with excitement. My legs feel as light as air. I’m giddy, gleefully childlike. A few of the guards see him break away and race after him, one of them snapping a whip at his heels.

  Ignoring the crackle of the whip, my dad thunders toward me with reckless abandon. The gap between us disappears. Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty.

  Crack! The guard slings the whip with practiced precision and this time it connects, wrapping around my father’s legs and tripping him up. He manages to brace his fall with his arms and skids to a stop ten feet from me, his arms immediately sheening with fresh blood from new scrapes.

  We go for the guards. One for me; one for Tristan.

  I choose the one with the whip. I’m not sure where this sudden need for revenge comes from, but I can’t seem to control it. First Rivet, because of Cole. Now the whip-carrying guard, because of my father.

  The guard pulls the strap back and snaps it at me. I see it coming, ducking so low I’m forced into a roll, clunky and painful on the stone. I emerge from the roll on my feet and still moving at full force. I’m not sure a train could stop me at this point. It’s like I’m possessed by a demon, only observing my crazed self from afar.

  When the guard sees the look on my face, his own face flashes fear, cheeks turning white and mouth contorting. I lead with an elbow, spearing him in the mouth with it and likely jarring a few teeth loose. Maintaining my momentum, I follow through with a shoulder to his sternum, flattening him onto his back and trampling overtop his chest.

  I screech to a stop and look back. Tristan has the other guard at sword point, but then switches the blade to his left hand and punches the guy hard in the head twice. His head lolls to the side like he’s unconscious.

  The guard I battered is groaning and writhing in pain. I don’t think he’s going to be a threat anytime soon, so I leave him and run to my dad, who’s pulling himself to his feet. Despite his aches and pains, he’s smiling, his arms outstretched.

  Although it isn’t exactly as I planned in my mind, I jump on him, wrap my arms and legs around him, hugging him harder than I ever have before, not caring that he’s covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. “Dad…oh, Dad,” I murmur into his chest.

  “My precious daughter,” he says, rubbing my back.

  I hear Tristan say, “Not trying to spoil the reunion here, but we’ve got to go.” Reluctantly, I release my dad and turn to Tristan, who’s watching us with one black eye; the other is trained on the continuing battle between the guards and prisoners. I see what he’s worried about. A few of the guards have broken away from the fray and are gesturing at us wildly.

  “C’mon,” I say, grabbing my dad’s hand and pulling him toward the closest pyramid. “I’ll take you to Elsey.”

  “El’s here?” my dad says, following me.

  “Yeah, I figured I’d pick her up on the way over. You know, right after we broke out of prison.”

  “What!?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Tristan limp-runs past us. I can tell he’s fighting through the pain.

  “Follow me,” he says.

  I’m not sure why I do it. I guess because I want to show my dad that I’m tough, that I’ve survived, that I’m the strong girl he raised. In any case, it’s probably just childish. “No, follow me!” I exclaim. I take off, sprinting past Tristan and around the first pyramid.

  I glance back and see Tristan half-grinning, half-cringing, trying to catch up. My dad isn’t far behind him, looking lean and fast. Further back still is the group of guards, who have started chasing us. Great. Can’t they just leave us alone? Haven’t we been through enough?

  To make it more difficult for the guards to follow us, I weave through the pyramids, cutting a random path toward the open flats that lead to the outer wall. I emerge from between two pyramids and into the open. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins, pushing me to fly, fly! I don’t sprout wings and take off, but I do run pretty fast—so fast that Tristan doesn’t catch me until we’re halfway across the empty space.

  I look back to see where my dad is. He’s fallen behind a bit, unable to keep up with our younger legs. Or it might not be age that hinders him. It might be the weight of the abuse he’s been subjected to in the
camp, rendering his body tired and weakened. Whatever the case, the guards are gaining on him—five of them, closing in like a net.

  “My dad,” I say, pulling to a stop. Tristan stops, too, and we reverse our course. My dad sees us coming and slows up. He isn’t about to let us do all the fighting for him.

  He turns just as we reach him. The guards are upon us. Five on three. Tasers and whips against fists and feet and spirit—oh, and Tristan’s sword, too.

  A Taser lances out toward my father’s legs, but is blocked by a quick thrust of Tristan’s sword. A whip snaps at my head, but I duck and charge. I’m not full of rage anymore, but I do feel confident. Next to my father I feel invincible. He’s my teacher. The best fighter I’ve ever known. Although I’ve never seen him fight anyone for real, I’ve always believed he’s unbeatable.

  I leap at the guard who missed me with the whip, kick him in the head, knock him over. Glance to my right.

  My dad clotheslines two of the other guards, his heavy arms catching them in the neck and forcing them to the stone. Flopping on the ground, they gasp for air. Tristan has another one at sword point. Rather than finishing him off, he uses his forearm to send a shiver through the guy’s skull, knocking him senseless.

  There’s only one guard on his feet. The new odds: three on one. He runs, dropping his whip and Taser and pride in a heap on the stone.

  We run in the other direction. I let Tristan lead this time. I want to keep an eye on my dad. I can’t believe it was that easy—almost too easy.

  A barrage of bullets keens past us and, instinctively, I duck and throw my arms over my head, as if mere flesh and bone will stop the hot metal pellets from hurting me. In front, Tristan yells out sharply and stumbles, clutching at his leg, which is slick and red. He’s been hit. The rest of us will be soon. It must not be bad, because Tristan manages to keep running, albeit less gracefully, with us in tow.

  We reach the gap in the wall. The air is thick and heavy and smells of war. The bullets have stopped temporarily, presumably as our pursuers reload.

  Tawni, Roc, and Elsey are waiting for us. We’ve led the danger right to them.

  I look back, expecting a dozen guards armed to the teeth. One guy is running toward us, frantically trying to release an expired clip from his automatic weapon. It’s the guy who ran away before. He had time to get his gun but not the rest of his friends.

  “Anyonegotanythingwecanshoot?” I ask in one breath. The guy’s gun will be loaded soon and we’ll be dead.

  Tristan, cringing in pain, says, “Roc, did we pack anything other than swords?”

  “Sorry, no,” Roc says. “You specifically said no guns.” He glances warily at the guy with the gun. He’s getting closer. The old clip falls away behind him and he pulls a new one from his pocket.

  Then I remember: “Your slingshot, El,” I say.

  Without hesitation, she extracts it and I reach for it.

  “No,” she says. “I can do it.”

  My instinct is to grab it from her, to whirl and shoot the guard. To take care of my family and end his pursuit. But there’s no time to argue. “Do it, El. Hurry,” I say.

  My sister, who never trained with me and our father before, grasps the slingshot handle firmly. Surely, she’s never shot a human before, but it won’t be any different than a tin can or a rock post or whatever else she’s practiced on. In one swift motion she extends her arm, loads a pellet, and stretches the band back toward her chin. Rotating her torso, she locates our pursuer in the sights.

  Despite all his bumbling, he’s finally managed to snap the new clip into his gun, and he’s just bringing the nozzle up to a firing position. El has maybe two seconds to get him before he gets us. Even as I stop breathing, she makes an incremental adjustment to her aim, as if she wants to hit him higher, in the head. A smaller target. No, I think.

  The guard stops and aims his gun right at us. One second.

  El fires, releasing the band with a dull thwap! To the human eye, the pellet moves as fast as any bullet, disappearing into the empty air as if it never existed at all. The only evidence of my sister’s shot is the groan from the guy as his head snaps back and he crumples to the ground, his gun landing on top of him, having not been fired.

  “Yes!” I shout. “Well done.” Elsey’s face is hard and strong, and I couldn’t be prouder of her in that moment.

  In a flash, her easy grin is back. Stoic Elsey is a little girl again, running toward my dad. “Oh, Father!” she exclaims, jumping into his arms, not unlike the way I did earlier.

  “Are you okay?” Tawni says, directing the question at all of us.

  “Fine,” I say quickly. “But Tristan’s been hit.”

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “It grazed me—looks worse than it is.” The red blood is swarming over his leg and we’ll have to stop the bleeding, but not here, not now.

  “We’ve got to keep moving,” I say.

  “The bombs are hitting everywhere,” Tawni says. “They’re very close.”

  “We have no choice. We’ll be caught if we stay here.”

  My dad puts Elsey down, but she continues to cling to his waist. “Adele’s right,” he says. “Reinforcements will be sent to subdue the prisoners. Believe me, they will. Then they’ll search for us—plenty of guards witnessed our escape.”

  “We’ll make it,” Tristan says. “We have to make it.” There’s a strange confidence in his voice. Not cockiness—he doesn’t seem like that kind of guy. Nor is it a statement made by someone who’s gotten everything he ever wanted since the day he was born—although he has. It sounds almost like a prediction. Sort of philosophical; sort of mystical. And the way Tristan glances at Roc—intense, knowing—it’s like there’s something they know, or think they know, that they aren’t telling us. Something important. Something life changing.

  When I became a mind reader, I don’t know. I’m probably just imagining things.

  My dad pulls away from Elsey’s grip and holds her hand, pulls her toward the exit. “Let’s go,” he says.

  We creep through the rubble together. An explosion erupts somewhere nearby, sending dust and chunks of stone into the air. Another bomb hits further down the street, blasting the middle of a tall building. Weakened, the upper half teeters, leans, and then tumbles away, crashing across the road and into the next building, which crumbles under the weight. Beneath the buildings, people run out, frantically trying to escape the world that’s caving in on them.

  None of them make it. Not a single one. There are at least ten souls destroyed—five crushed under the weight of the massive hunks of rock falling from above, the other five killed by a second missile landing in the center of their escape route. Like so many others from the last few days, the memory of our horrific flight through the subchapter 26 warzone is being tattooed into my brain.

  We flee down a street that hasn’t been hit yet. Bombs are going off all around us. The smell of death is in the air. The smoke chokes my lungs and burns my eyes. Elsey is screaming so much that my dad eventually picks her up and carries her in his strong arms.

  We pass through a deserted intersection filled with rubble. My mouth is dry from running and shouting and fighting. My legs are burning. I stumble on a broken stone, feel myself falling. And then a strong arm is there, grabbing me, keeping me on my feet. An electric touch: Tristan. Not grinning anymore. Lips pursed, serious. But also determined. I feel safe with him. He’s badly injured, but still strong.

  Roc, who seems to have a good idea of the city layout, leads us to the left, down a side street that’s relatively unscathed. In fact, all the streets in this direction haven’t been bombed.

  We soon find out why.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tristan

  Abruptly, Roc ducks into an alley. We follow him, mimicking his movements, flattening ourselves against the wall. I want to ask what we’re doing, but Roc’s finger is on his lips—for some reason, complete silence is important now.

  Roc has good
hearing, because I don’t hear anything for at least another minute. But then I hear it: the sound of marching feet. Hundreds of them, maybe more. It sounds like a parade. If the thumping feet are the beat of the snare drums, the periodic bomb blasts are the bass drums. The feet are getting closer. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Directly in sync with the beating of my heart.

  When the first line of troops passes us I hold my breath. When I realize the soldiers are so focused straight ahead that they aren’t going to see us, I slowly release the air in my lungs.

  At least a thousand soldiers march by, each wearing a star patch on their shoulders. Star Dweller troops. Although their sky-blue uniforms are old and frayed, they seem to be professionals, well-organized and confident. And they’re carrying shiny new guns, just another piece of evidence that someone from the Sun Realm is helping them. They look a little ragtag, yes, but deadly. Pissed off to the point of killing anyone who gets in their way.

  When the last line of soldiers tramps past us and the drumbeat fades into the distance, we finally relax. Shoulders slump, deep breaths are taken, hearts slow.

  “What’s going on?” Adele’s father asks. Other than hearing the bombs and listening to prisoner gossip, he wouldn’t have any idea what’s been happening while he’s been stuck in prison.

  “Soon,” Adele says. “Let’s make for the reservoir.”

  Once more, Roc leads the way. Although the bombing has finally stopped, I don’t feel safe. At any moment another contingent of rebels could happen upon us. They’ll shoot first, ask questions later.

  Despite my fears, we reach the stream safely. Out of the city it’s darker, but much less scary. There won’t be soldiers or bombs here.

  “We need to talk,” Adele’s father says.

  “I know,” Adele replies. “But first his leg.” She motions to my gunshot wound.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “All over it,” Tawni says, removing a spare tunic from her bag. “You talk while I do this.”