by Kevin George
“You’d dare turn your back on the one and only Lord and Jonas?” he asked.
Aytyn shuffled forward a few inches, his spear by his side, though he gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Killing you wouldn’t be turning my back on either Jonas,” Aytyn said with steely calmness, causing Ryo’s grin to widen.
“Enough. Aytyn and the others were told to protect the Jonas Heir, which is exactly what they’re doing,” King Edmond said. Ryo nodded a single time before stepping back, never taking his eyes off Aytyn. The king approached the former leader of his guardsmen. “All is well in The Third and Fifth?”
“I cannot answer that, Your Illustriousness,” Aytyn said. “We spend all of our time in the tunnel, per the orders of Prince Oliver.”
“That sort of question can be directed toward me,” Oliver said, stepping through his line of people.
Father and son came face to face. Ryo began to step toward them, but the king held up a hand to stop him. Oliver sneered within his helmet, glancing away from his father long enough to glare at Ryo, a look that was returned by the massive guard.
“I didn’t come here to hear your watch dog berate my brave men following orders,” Oliver said. He stepped to the side, making a show of looking toward the hovercraft parked farthest away. “Nor did I come to be watched by the liar that tried to have me killed, the liar that you sided with over your own son.”
King Edmond sighed. “Enough of this.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, snorting. “You’re right, enough of this.”
He turned and began to walk away, passing between Aytyn and another guardsman. When the king tried to follow, Aytyn stood taller, gripping his weapon tighter, the rest of his men following his lead. Upon seeing this, the king froze, but Ryo and his guards didn’t. Ryo started forward until King Edmond stopped him.
“Please, Oliver, you know I wouldn’t come here unless it was important,” Edmond said. Oliver paused but didn’t turn around until his father called out his new command. “Bring the queen!”
Ryo nodded to several guardsmen, who hurried toward the queen’s hovercraft. As much as Oliver never wanted to see Queen Raefaline again, his curiosity was piqued about why the king would bring her all the way here. His mind raced with possibilities, from the king handing her over to face punishment, to the king finally doling out punishment in an attempt to reconcile with The Third and Fifth. Either way, Oliver turned and walked forward again, but not before warning his guards.
“Keep weapons at the ready,” he told his fighters. “I don’t trust her.”
Tension mounted and Oliver saw more than one spear shaking in the hands of fighters on both sides. Only King Edmond appeared calm as he watched his guards step aside to let the queen through. Upon seeing her face, the first word Oliver thought was ‘glowing.’ The second was ‘full’ and the third was ‘beautiful,’ a thought that filled him with equal parts anger and shame. A part of him understood why his father had fallen for her allure. Still, her brow was furrowed and her eyes turned to Ryo, a flash of emotion—exactly which one, Oliver couldn’t tell—passing between them. Raefaline seemed to sense Oliver watching her and eventually turned to him, her expression going blank, their eyes locking. It wasn’t until Raefaline stood beside the king that Oliver noticed her full face matched her very swollen belly.
Raefaline nodded to Oliver. “Prince Oliver,” she said sweetly, slightly out of breath. “I’m glad to see you in good health. I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for not attending your wedding. As you can see, I’m not in the best condition for travel.”
Her eyes flitted toward the king, who didn’t seem to pay attention to her. Edmond remained focused on his son, watching the boy’s reaction at the sight of the pregnant queen. Oliver exhaled slowly, forcing his clenched jaw to relax.
“Actually, you didn’t attend my wedding because you weren’t invited,” he seethed, trying to keep his composure.
Queen Raefaline turned to the king. “And the same for your father?”
Oliver looked to King Edmond and saw a spark of disappointment in his father’s eyes. Oliver was surprised to feel a hint of guilt, though that didn’t last long as the king’s head snapped in his wife’s direction.
“Don’t presume to speak for me,” he warned.
Queen Raefaline bowed, her lips taut though her eyes smiled. “Of course not, Your Illustriousness. My apologies. I am quite tired from carrying the Jonas Heir,” she said, her hands instinctively finding her midsection. “I can feel how strong he is inside of my belly.”
The queen smiled at Oliver, making no attempt to hide that every word she’d said was directed toward him. Edmond immediately realized her insolence and turned to Ryo.
“You heard the queen, she’s tired,” King Edmond growled. “Return her to One at once.”
Ryo nodded and turned to the pair of guardsmen beside him, ordering them to follow the king’s command. But Edmond shook his head and snapped at Ryo to do as he said, earning a rare chuckle from Aytyn. Ryo glared at his counterpart, but only for a moment before he escorted the queen back through the squadron of One guards. An uncomfortable silence filled the tunnel as all eyes watched the queen follow Ryo, who made no attempt to slow down for her to keep pace. Once they boarded their hovercraft and sped back toward One, King Edmond craned his neck to look toward The Third’s entrance.
“I thought you would’ve brought your own wife to present to me now that she’s a princess,” Edmond said. “I am king, after all. I won’t force niceties on you, but a proper introduction would’ve been nice.”
Oliver snorted. “You act as if you don’t already know her. . . as if you didn’t realize our marriage was inevitable when you sent her here. Enough with the games.”
The king leaned in and whispered. “She doesn’t know I’m here? Does she still avoid you by all means necessary?” he asked. When Oliver’s response remained a glare, the king laughed and clapped his son’s shoulder. “I know what that’s like.”
Oliver shrugged his father’s hand off him. “My wife isn’t avoiding me. We’re both busy. . . making life better for everyone that lives in The Third and Fifth.” He spoke louder, turning his head toward the One guards. “Giving our people the freedom to come and go as they please, the freedom to live their lives without being told what to do by the Lord and Jonas.”
In unison, the One guards shifted forward, which resulted in Aytyn and the Thirders doing the same. King Edmond held up a hand to stop them, chuckling as he leaned closer to his son.
“Can’t get her to sleep in Tent City with you?” the king asked. “Or show her face in The Fifth? You may have found and destroyed many of the Lord’s cameras but not enough to stop me from knowing everything that happens in—”
“Sorry for being late, Your Illustriousness,” a female voice echoed behind the Thirders. “But my husband does so like for me to make an entrance.”
The squadron of Thirders parted as a beautiful young woman approached. Her hair pulled back sensibly and clad in the simple garb of those from her home section, the princess carried a greater air of authority than the queen had. Prince Oliver turned to her, the first time he’d seen her in weeks, unable to suppress a smile at the sight of her, a smile that spread wider when he heard his father snicker upon her approach. Still, the king stepped forward and leered at the princess as she stood beside Oliver.
“I’m glad to see the swelling on your face has subsided, Princess Emma,” King Edmond said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Isaac huffed, all he could do to stop from grunting or screaming in sheer frustration. He stomped down the aisle between a long row of shelves, the echo of his footsteps becoming lost in the cavernous supply bunker. Although his surroundings were dim—the few working lights flickered overhead—Isaac already knew what the shelves held without needing to look. Keeping his head down and his eyes forward, he muttered everything he passed, from building materials, to office supp
lies, to machinery that was covered in dust and had probably stopped working decades ago.
Isaac reached the back wall and stopped to listen. For a few seconds, he heard nothing but glorious silence. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping, tension melting from his back and mind. He breathed easier, slower, relieved that his crumbling wits would have the chance to recover, his mind a chance to remember who he’d once been and how he could—
Bang. . . clang. . .
Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, but the noise somehow sounded louder than before, echoing in his head as if he were standing right beside the person causing it. Each bang threatened to shatter his mind’s frail hold on sanity. With a heavy sigh, he turned and hurried along the length of the bunker’s back wall. He nearly bumped into a large stack of boxes covering an entire section of wall, hurrying around them until he reached the corner. There he found several mattresses propped up into the shape of a box, precariously leaning against the wall and each other, seemingly on the verge of tipping over. He carefully squeezed his way between them, careful not to disrupt them.
He sat down on the mattress within, the tight space darker and quieter than outside. He let out a deep sigh and lay back, closing his eyes in the hopes of enjoying some peace and quiet. But the pounding soon started anew, quiet and muffled at first, seeming to grow louder with every passing second. Common sense told Isaac the sound wasn’t so loud, but rage told him something else. He exploded to his feet, pushing over the nearest mattress, causing them all to topple. When he tried to stomp away, he tripped, which only made his rage grow greater.
He hurried down the nearest aisle, the banging sound getting louder, his anger building so much that he couldn’t stop himself from running. He sped past shelf after shelf, turning down every aisle that he passed, making his way to the center of the cavernous supply bunker. Isaac soon found himself out of breath and stumbled along until reaching the ramp at the front of the bunker. Artie stood atop the ramp, his back turned to Isaac, a large metal rod in his hand that he slammed against the concrete wall over and over, accomplishing nothing as far as Isaac could tell.
Isaac cleared his throat to get Artie’s attention, but Artie grunted and groaned and swung the rod over and over. Isaac used this moment to catch his breath and tell himself to calm down, to convince his mind that Artie was doing the only thing possible to get them back to the surface. But the perpetual clanging hammered away at Isaac’s brain, chipping away his sanity with greater success than Artie had on the wall.
“Enough!” Isaac finally screamed, his voice high-pitched and crazed.
Startled, Artie lost his grip on the metal rod, which clattered to the floor and rolled down the ramp. Artie’s eyes were wide as they turned to Isaac. In an instant, Isaac felt foolish for losing control of his temper, but he’d come too far—and screamed too loudly—to back away now.
“Please,” Isaac asked calmly. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“You’re always trying to sleep,” Artie said.
Isaac shook his head. “I’m conserving energy so I can—”
“Think better? I know, I know,” Artie said with a sigh, unable to stop from rolling his eyes. “How’s that working for you?”
“About the same as you making all that noise,” Isaac said. “Accomplishing nothing, I see?”
Artie crossed his arms and turned toward the concrete wall. He leaned in closer and pointed to several spots where fist-sized divots had been smashed out. Isaac made a show of squinting to see Artie’s progress, chuckling as he did so.
“At that rate, it’ll take you. . . I don’t know. . . forever to dig your way through the concrete,” Isaac said. “And that’s if you don’t destroy all of your tools first.” He nodded toward the stack of bent and twisted metal poles piled off to the side of the ramp. “Looks like you’re wasting them to me.”
“At least I’m doing something to get back to Emma.”
“You barely know her,” Isaac said, his voice oozing with condescension. “I guarantee Emma has already moved on from. . . whatever it is you think you had with her.”
Artie stomped down the ramp, nearly slipping along the way, grimacing as he clutched his leg. Isaac braced himself to attack, but Artie only sneered.
“And Julietta?” Artie asked. “I wonder how many men she’s been with since returning Below. Maybe the king decided to have a second round with her.”
Isaac gritted his teeth but could not move, all breath being sucked out of his lungs. He’d had that same worry every minute of every day in all the months stuck in the bunker, but the nightmarish scenario sounded more plausible when Artie said it.
“I never should’ve told you that,” Isaac seethed.
Artie’s shoulders sagged and he nodded, the ire fading from his face.
“You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”
Isaac lashed out, aiming a punch for Artie’s face. Artie turned at the last second and Isaac’s fist grazed the side of his head, still enough to knock him back. Artie touched his head, pain turning to anger. He stared at Isaac with utter contempt. Isaac opened his mouth to apologize but didn’t have a chance. Artie launched himself forward, his shoulder crashing into Isaac’s chest, driving him back until both lost their balance and crashed into the nearest shelving unit.
The two became a jumble of flailing limbs, neither of them trained fighters, neither of them with the energy to regain their balance and wrestle the other to the floor. Instead, Isaac tried to push Artie’s face back as Artie continued to drive his weight forward, smashing Isaac’s back over and over against the bottom shelf, causing more and more supplies to rain down on them. Artie ducked his head, taking the brunt of the falling objects against his back, knowing he was actually shielding Isaac from injury but not caring. It wasn’t until a can hit Artie in the back of the head that he lost all desire to fight and rolled away. Isaac remained covering his head until he was certain the shelves had nothing left to drop.
Neither man moved nor spoke for several minutes. Isaac checked the bumps and bruises forming on his head and body, but Artie resisted the urge to do the same. Still, both breathed heavily and surveyed the mess they’d made.
“You’re not supposed to be on my side of the bunker,” Artie finally muttered.
“We’re never going to get out of here,” Isaac said. “We’ve searched every inch of the place for a way to open the ramp. Nothing. You’ve been pounding away for weeks. Nothing.”
Artie stood up and hobbled toward his dented pole several feet away. He groaned as he bent over to pick it up. He carried it back toward Isaac, who didn’t bother to shield himself.
“We have shelter here, clothing, massive stocks of food,” he said. “We’ve both faced worse without giving up. I don’t plan on doing so now.”
Artie hobbled back up the ramp and smashed the metallic pole into the concrete, causing a few tiny pieces of debris to skitter down toward Isaac. Artie grunted, massaging the pain from his shoulders before striking the wall again.
“These packets of dried food will only last so long,” Isaac called up to him. “And who knows if it’s any good or if eating it is killing us faster?”
Artie shrugged. “If the stores of food down here survived this long, they’ll last long enough for me to break my way out, even if it takes one tiny chip at a time.”
The lights flickered again, another section of track lighting staying out for good. This part of the bunker remained brighter than the back section, but the flicker of absolute darkness—even if it’d lasted less than a second—was enough for Artie and Isaac to stare up at the lights. They exchanged a frightened glance, not that either was ready to admit aloud that they were scared. Artie turned away first, focusing his attention back on the wall, the banging and clanging beginning anew. Isaac felt the itch of annoyance at the back of his mind but turned away before making things worse.
Isaac looked up, his mind peering well beyond the track lighting and ceiling above. He thought about the sol
ar panels outside, about Old Minkus no longer being alive to clean them off. It would only be a matter of time before so much snow and ice covered the panels that the supply bunker would be plunged into eternal darkness, a thought that caused Isaac to shiver.
You should go over and help. . . do whatever you can to escape, even if it ultimately proves worthless, he told himself, slowing down long enough to glance back toward the ramp. Do it for Artie’s sake. . . for Emma’s sake. . . for Julietta’s sake. . .
But he couldn’t bring himself to turn back, not when he knew Artie was probably right—that his nightmares were probably true—about Julietta’s fate. He couldn’t imagine any situation in which she’d survived going back to the City Below. He kept walking down the aisle, the bangs fading behind him, not dissimilar to the way the memory of Julietta’s face was fading from his mind. . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Julietta’s eyes remained closed, but enough light filtered through her lids to rouse her from slumber. She rolled over in bed, turning her back to the sunlight shining through the green glass, trying to drift back asleep to no avail. She sighed, her back aching as she lay on a hard mattress atop the highest bunk, the least uncomfortable in the entire Herders’ barracks. Silence surrounded her, the best and worst part of her solitude. A single thought crossed her mind—the same thought that welcomed her every morning—and she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and leaping to the floor.
She didn’t bother looking out the glass wall beside her, didn’t bother looking out at the snowy enclosure, or the beasts roaming within it, or the massive Dome beyond that. She passed the empty bunks and reached the barracks’ small hallway, turning in the opposite direction of the larger hallway that led toward the Dome. At the end of the hallway was a door that she struggled to open. It had snowed plenty overnight and a drift formed outside that blocked her in, but she pushed hard enough to open the door to the world beyond the Dome’s outer wall.
Freezing wind swirled around her body, blowing away lingering cobwebs left by sleepiness. But a break in the clouds and the absence of snowfall allowed plenty of sunlight to reach the ground, giving her a view farther into the distance than she could remember. She spent nearly a minute ignoring the cold, staring off into the Nothingness, trying to spot anything but white. But there was no sign of Isaac, no sign of life at all, not that she should’ve been surprised. Realistically, she knew it was unlikely he’d survived his exodus from the Dome, but deep down, she had no doubt he was still alive.
