Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  With a leap, Charley pulled himself onto Shooey’s back. “About time you got here.” He hugged Shooey’s neck, and said softly, “I missed you, buddy.” He looked at Sandy, searching her face. He made an attempt to mask the sadness he felt inside. “Just what? Just be careful as I fly my pterodactyl in a sky chase after a Minotaur riding on a dragon?”

  The corner of Sandy’s mouth lifted. “I was going to say, just that I—” She sighed. “Just go get him.”

  Charley watched her carefully, sensing that he still didn’t fully realize all that had changed in Sandy. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  With a rapid twitch, Shooey launched into the air. Charley’s breath caught in his throat. Shooey’s speed and maneuverability were on full display, easily better than the larger vulcodile.

  Shooey rose high above the vulcodile, which was still careening crazily through the air, Orson dangling on one talon and twisting in the wind. Floating on the slipstream, Charley chanced a look at the undulating crowd below, still wildly cheering. He wondered did they even think of those in the arena as real people, with feelings, and families, and dreams for the future? Then he remembered the doctored Score on his arm; he was still technically just a Low Score, a nobody, a non-person; he was no better than an animal.

  Charley’s gaze panned the arena. Bodies, both animal and human, littered the arena floor, some taking their last rasping breaths, alone in the dirt, others slipping away into the waves. A dead wolverator lay tangled amongst the limbs of three very dead men, blood everywhere.

  Charley swallowed, considering the death and destruction below. All are from the dust, and to dust all return. Who knew whether the spirit of man goes upward and the spirit of the beast goes down into the earth? They were both definitely as dead as could be. Did the men go somewhere different than the wolverator? Did they both just cease to exist? He knew what Grigor would say, but he wasn’t so sure.

  Shooey shrieked angrily, dive-bombing their prey like an ancient winged dinosaur intent on dinner.

  The vulcodile twisted its long snapping jaws around, spiky crocodile teeth flashing. Pulling up, Shooey swooped to the side, chomping a garbage-pail-sized mouth at the czar’s outstretched arm and just missing.

  “You again!” The czar’s bright red eyes shone wildly. Hacking viciously at Charley, he missed, but nicked Shooey’s wing. Crying out, Shooey veered away, his right wing fluttering awkwardly, but not before he had raked his long webbed talons across the czar’s exposed neck and down the side of the vulcodile’s ribs.

  The czar and his vulcodile bellowed in unison, a bestial keening of pain that was just human-sounding enough to set Charley’s teeth on edge. The czar’s nostrils flared, his vaguely human features twisting into a zoomorphic representation of a rampaging angry bull sheeted in blood. An image of the ruby-red bion from Meritropolis flashed unbidden across Charley’s mind, unsettling him.

  “We can do this, boy,” Charley whispered, as much to Shooey as to himself. He clung tighter to Shooey’s neck and directed him with his knees. Shooey warbled softly, but turned back toward the czar.

  Seeing their approach, the czar snorted, shaking his head from side to side, red droplets showering the crowd below like blood rain. Charley looked closer at the czar’s pulsing neck. The wound didn’t appear to be fatal, but he was losing blood fast. Now was the time to attack.

  Charley leaned into Shooey’s neck and squeezed his knees tight. “Shooey, let’s—”

  Orson screamed out, a desperate, pleading yelp. He was losing his grip. The czar looked down at Orson. “Sorry, son, but you are weighing me down.” With a vicious heel kick, he booted Orson in the side of the head, causing him to release his grasp and fall, flipping through the sky. Freed of the extra weight, the vulcodile beat its wings furiously, and soared into the sky.

  ***

  The time for revenge was now—or maybe never.

  Orson continued to scream as he fell, twisting in the air like a cat. Charley swallowed; he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Orson was so helpless—unloved—and now just flung to the wind like a piece of trash, plummeting to his death in front of a cheering audience. And Charley was part of that audience.

  The realization brought bile to his throat; he was no better than any of them. Was he no better than an animal either, just as helplessly lost to his rage and impulses? What if the time for grace was now? But what if he didn’t have any grace to give? He sucked in a breath, the wind rushing into his lungs, and thought about Grigor’s proclamation that none of them deserved even the gift of air to breathe.

  Charley squeezed his knees, kicking Shooey downward. “Orson.”

  Folding his wings back like a falcon, Shooey dived. The wind tore at Charley’s clothes, bringing tears to his eyes. Mid-scream, Orson found himself snatched out of the air, a leaping fish in an eagle’s talons. Inches above the ground, they bucked like a parachute jerking open.

  Orson screamed out. “Don’t let this thing kill me!”

  Shooey floated to the ground, gently releasing Orson, who scrambled away on all fours. Charley sighed. Why is grace so hard both to receive, and to give?

  Charley looked at the western horizon. The czar’s incongruent spread of horns, atop the V of the vulcodile’s wings, was silhouetted against the fading sun. And in no time at all they were already shrinking on the western horizon. They flew erratically, listing sideways before recovering and tilting crazily to the other side. Both the czar and vulcodile were injured; Charley could still see a slick of blood streaming down the vulcodile’s side, but the czar was now just a speck, too far away to catch. For now.

  Grigor walked up and placed a massive paw on Charley’s shoulder. Charley forced his eyes away from the horizon and looked up at Grigor, his broad face creasing into a smile with the wattage of a thousand candles. He patted Charley’s back and nodded to where Orson was being lifted off the ground by Hank, Sandy, Sven, each watching Charley with a strange expression. “We are all safe.”

  “For now.”

  “Yes, but we need to get out of the arena immediately.” Grigor lifted a hand, motioning to the bodies strewn around the arena floor. “With the emperor dead, and all of the confusion, we need to go now.”

  “Right,” Charley said, stroking Shooey’s damaged wing. “Not just the arena, we need to get out of town.”

  Hank walked up. “We’re leaving Meritorium? Good, I hate this place.” He slapped at his arm. “Where are we going? Hopefully somewhere without ants.”

  Charley looked at the western horizon and then to Grigor, who nodded, his smile fading. Charley spoke softly. “I can’t promise anything about ants, but I know exactly where to go.” The ever-present molten rage bubbled softly under the surface, but it felt restrained, different somehow. “Somewhere to get answers.”

  And revenge, he thought to himself. But maybe, just maybe, he could learn to trust in the God to whom revenge belongs, maybe even receive a grace he didn’t deserve, and believe in the only One who could fill the emptiness inside. After all, he had extended grace to Orson—that was a miracle in itself. Who knew what other miracles might be in store?

  Charley took a deep breath, inhaling the cold, clear air that cleansed and refreshed him from the inside out. He laughed, his flashing smile uncharacteristically as bright as Grigor’s.

  Hank paused, unsettled at Charley’s sunny disposition. “Umm, okay.” Seeing no further explanation was going to be offered, he continued. “Well, let’s get going then. We’ll follow you.”

  Charley took a step and looked back over his shoulder. Sven and his newfound compatriots trundled behind, following him. Grigor and Orson brought up the rear. Sandy had a funny look on her face, but her nose wrinkled up in a soft, hopeful grin. His smile broadened, and he nodded for her to come up beside him.

  He knew where to go at least.

  Meritopia.

  About th
e Author

  Joel Ohman lives in Tampa, FL with his wife Angela and their three kids. His writing companion is Caesar, a slightly overweight Bull Mastiff who loves to eat the tops off of strawberries.

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