by Kevin George
Nobody can doubt I’m the new leader after everyone saw me kill King Edmond, Ryo told himself. Whether or not I marry Raefaline is irrelevant. As long as I control the child, I will control the queen, One, and the entire city.
As Ryo started to plan the best way to kidnap the newborn and lock up Queen Raefaline, the pair of One guards at the tunnel entrance came into view and waved in their direction.
“Be ready in case they plan to attack,” Ryo warned.
The two guardsmen looked back at Ryo, their brows furrowed. Neither had a chance to ask why they should expect an attack when a strange flapping sound exploded from beyond the tunnel guards. Ryo’s driver cut the throttle and turned the hovercraft’s control stick, sending them careening to a stop inches from the wall. Ryo was thrown to the side of the hovercraft, nearly falling over the edge.
As he scrambled to sit upright, the flapping echoed louder. Ryo looked up to see a massive shadow sweeping over the craft, the Sky Person flying above them, his wingspan stretching to both sides of the tunnel. Ryo and the guardsmen launched their spears in the Sky Person’s direction but came up well short, the flying man disappearing down the tunnel in a matter of seconds.
“Should we go after it?” a guardsman asked.
Ryo shook his head. “It’s headed for the battle. I don’t know if our side or their side will be more likely to destroy it, but that thing isn’t our problem any longer.”
Ryo’s guardsmen retrieved their weapons before the trio rushed toward the entrance, blowing past the pair of tunnel guards, ignoring their questions about what the hell just flew by. They no sooner entered One than Ryo noticed how much hotter it felt. He looked up and saw the colors of the ceiling were harder to spot within the thickening steam, which poured out of the palace entrance at the top of the steppes. Ryo led them to the Palace Lift but burned his hand on the hot metal of the cart’s door.
Worry itched at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t right. He’d known for months that King Edmond was a fraud—that he wasn’t the mystical Lord and Jonas as he claimed—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that killing the king wouldn’t go unpunished. He led his men toward the ramp leading up the steppes. Sweat poured down his body as they climbed, passing several One women and children along the way.
Ryo tried to keep his eyes forward but couldn’t avoid the way the citizens stared at him, their whispers too quiet for him to hear. Some glared but all bowed; a few even proclaimed him ‘Your Illustriousness.’ Ryo knew he should’ve felt proud to be addressed in such a way, but he heard the hatred in their tones. One citizens would always consider him a murderer, the same argument he’d made against killing the king soon after the midwife called him into the queen’s bedroom following the birth of the new prince.
“We will control history once we control the city, the same way the Jonas family has done for years,” Raefaline had told him, apparently having a plan all along. “Will a few citizens know what really happened, at least for a short time? Of course. But we will make those people happy, we will make their lives better, we will give them a reason to forget the heinous Jonas family. You will be known as a liberator, the man that rescued the most beloved queen from her abusive former king. Once Prince Oliver and his rebellion are destroyed, the Jonas name will be eradicated within a generation.”
She’d been so convincing that Ryo hadn’t worried about his own family, he hadn’t considered the initial days following Edmond’s murder or the potential revolt of One guards who already had a natural distaste for him and his kind. He could only hope enough One guards were killed in the war so they wouldn’t have the strength—or the numbers—to oppose Ryo’s rule upon their return.
I’ll have to fortify the palace against potential problems from those men, Ryo thought, knowing he’d have to eliminate all remaining palace guards whose loyalty was in doubt. He picked up his pace on the ramp, annoyed that the guardsmen behind him were breathing heavily. He was even more annoyed that he had trouble himself, especially the higher they climbed. When Ryo reached the tunnel leading to the QZ, he felt the slightest breeze blowing out of it, a hint of cold against his skin. He stopped to take a deep breath, pretending he was doing so to let the others catch up. The two guardsmen stopped when they reached him, but Ryo didn’t stand still for long.
“No time for breaks,” he snapped at them, stomping away.
After ascending another steppe, Ryo didn’t hear the footsteps of his men behind him. He turned to snap at them but saw the guardsmen shuffled closer to the tunnel opening, their heads cocked to the side.
“Did you hear a strange noise coming from in there?” one of them asked.
Ryo shook his head. “Stop being paranoid and get moving.”
One guardsman followed the order immediately, but the other stood in place, listening for several more seconds before finally rushing to catch up, muttering how he ‘swore’ he’d heard something. Though the temperature increased the higher they climbed, the three men didn’t stop until reaching the top. They climbed the steps to the throne room and passed between the columns, all of them staring up at the great billows of steam seeping out.
Inside, Ryo found Queen Raefaline still sitting atop the throne, the baby clutched to her chest, steam pouring out of the Magma Overlook behind her. As Ryo approached, he saw the queen’s eyes staring forward, though they appeared to be focused on nothing. Ryo stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“The war has begun,” he said proudly. “The prince—former prince—will be dead soon, if he isn’t already, and every citizen of The Third with him. That should provide plenty of dead bodies to send Above.”
Ryo couldn’t suppress a grin, though it didn’t last long. Raefaline still didn’t look at her, nor did she give any indication that she’d heard a thing he said. A loud hissing behind the queen was followed by more steam behind the throne. When the ground trembled lightly, the royal guardsmen turned to Ryo for orders; he told them to stand pat. When the trembling turned into a deeper rumbling—growing in intensity with every passing second—the guardsmen rushed out of the throne room, ignoring Ryo’s assurances that it was nothing, an assurance Ryo didn’t believe himself.
He looked up at the throne, where Queen Raefaline had not budged, nor had her expression changed from total blankness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The clanging was constant, each sound seeming louder than the last. Isaac sat in the corner, hands pressed tightly against his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. He rocked back and forth and hummed to himself, trying to increase his own volume to drown out the clanging. When it didn’t work, he talked to himself, repeating the same two words.
“Shut up. . . shut up. . . shut up. . .”
His voice grew louder and louder, but the clanging continued, the sound digging into his brain, chipping away at his crumbling sanity.
“Shut up!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
The clanging stopped, the sound replaced by his pounding heartbeat within his ears. Isaac exhaled deeply, his anger fading rapidly, embarrassment taking over for having lost his cool so explosively. He reminded himself that Artie was making progress—albeit very slow progress—and that he was trying to get them both out of the bunker, that he was working tirelessly to get them back to Emma and Julietta.
Julietta, Isaac thought, his eyes growing teary from shame. The cloud in his mind began to clear, Julietta’s beautiful scarred face taking shape, the first clear memory he’d had in months. But that memory didn’t last long. The clanging started anew and Julietta’s face disappeared from his mind, as did any memory Isaac had of her.
Isaac stood and grabbed the sharp digging tool he’d taken from the ramp. He stomped down his aisle, determined to end the noise once and for all, annoyed with himself for not doing so already.
“I should’ve killed you in your sleep,” Isaac muttered.
He gripped the weapon so tightly that his knuckles burned. The lights flickered overhead, once, then twice, then so many
times that Isaac couldn’t keep count, not that he was trying to. He reached the end of the aisle and spotted Artie hammering away on the top of the ramp, tiny pieces of debris skittering to the floor with each strike. Isaac opened his mouth to call out Artie’s name—he’d lasted this long without stabbing him in the back and didn’t plan to do that now—but he didn’t manage a single gasp before the lights flickered a final time and the entire bunker went dark.
Isaac stopped and sighed in relief. He hadn’t experienced this level of darkness for months. Still, his brain registered the final thing he’d seen before the blackness, an image of Artie turning in his direction. If there was any doubt whether Artie had spotted him, it was quickly answered.
“Isaac? You there?” Artie called out.
Isaac gripped his weapon, cocking his head to the side to listen for Artie’s footsteps. He considered rushing back to his corner of the bunker or remaining quiet, but he understood how suspicious both of those choices would make him. Instead, he nodded in the dark until remembering to speak.
“Yes.”
“You think that’s finally it for the power?” Artie asked.
“I hope not,” Isaac said, his voice sounding weak in the dark.
He heard Artie snort. “Well, crying about it won’t do any good.”
The clanging started again, loud and echoing, enveloping Isaac as much as the blackness did. Isaac’s hands instinctively went to his ears and he heard his own weapon hitting the floor. Anger exploded behind his eyes and the dark was momentarily interrupted by a flash of brightness. Isaac dropped to his knees, feeling around the floor, unable to concentrate for all the clanging. When his hands finally found his weapon, he squeezed it tightly, ignoring the pain in his palm, not realizing he was gripping the sharp tip until he felt the slickness of blood oozing between his fingers.
Isaac adjusted his grip, his pulse racing as he followed the clanging. He hoped the lights would remain off so he wouldn’t see Artie’s face when he did what had to be done. . .
Artie swung his metal pole again and again, each smash causing jolts of painful vibration through his hands, arms and back. He’d grown numb to most of the pain but knew he’d be stiff and sore when trying to rest later. Still, each hit made tiny cracking sounds and he felt small chunks of debris hitting the ramp around his feet. He wished he could see his progress—he wished he could see anything—but fear of the lights staying off forever pushed him to swing harder and harder. When he heard the tool crack and felt it go slack in his hand, he plopped to the floor and buried his head in his hands, fighting back a sob creeping up the back of his throat.
For the first time since being locked in the bunker, Artie was certain he was going to die, no matter how badly he wanted to get back to Emma. He’d always thought hard work and determination would get him back to her somehow, but he was going to die in this bunker, one way or another, whether it be in a few days or a few weeks or a few months, lost forever in total darkness. He no longer needed to close his eyes to see his final view of Emma, her arm reaching for him as he walked farther down the darkened tunnel. For all he knew, Oliver had tossed her into the lava pool that very day. If not then, Artie couldn’t imagine Oliver’s patience lasting longer than a few days, which could only mean Emma had been eliminated months—
The lights snapped back on, causing Artie’s chest to swell with hope. He leapt to his feet, more energized than he’d felt in months, ready to smash away at the wall, piece by piece if that’s what it took, determined not to take a single break until he saw the light of day again. But he didn’t swing a single time when he spotted a blur of movement in his periphery. He sensed danger right away and ducked, hearing the faint whoosh of a speeding metal pole inches above his head. The pole crashed into the wall, causing a loud clang, followed by a growl that didn’t sound like it came from a human.
Artie recoiled, falling to his butt, and looked up into Isaac’s crazed eyes.
“Shut up! Shut up!” Isaac yelled.
He raised his pole again—its sharpened tip glinting in the flickering lights—and swung down. In that moment, Artie realized Isaac wasn’t just trying to hit him, he was trying to kill him. Artie threw himself to the side, Isaac’s pole smashing the floor where he’d just been. Artie slid down the ramp, tiny pieces of debris digging into every part of his body as he rolled over it. When he reached the bottom, he scrambled to his knees, raising his own metallic pole as he shook his head.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Shut up!” Isaac yelled, his eyes wide and crazed as he stomped down the ramp. “Just shut up!”
“Stop!” Artie yelled back, shaking his pole in what he hoped to be a threatening gesture. “Are you crazy?”
But the look in Isaac’s eyes answered that question. Artie considered running but knew there was no place to hide. Isaac swung his pole wildly. Artie easily sidestepped it and the next swing he blocked with his own pole. Isaac called for him to ‘shut up’ the entire time, each scream becoming slightly quieter as his energy waned and his breathing grew heavier. Artie finally swung back, aiming for Isaac’s weapon, knocking it and him to the floor. He loomed over Isaac, who dropped his head as if accepting whatever punishment he deserved. For a moment, Artie considered striking him down, but he shook his head and stepped back.
“Try something like that again and I won’t hold back,” Artie said, his voice shaking as much as his hands, both suffering an overflow of adrenaline.
Isaac’s brow furrowed. Disgusted, Artie turned to walk away but didn’t make it a step when he heard a rattle. Too late, he tried to run, only to be struck in the back of the leg. Artie collapsed, dropping his pole to brace his fall, the metal clattering as it rolled away. Artie flipped onto his butt and scurried back, but Isaac loomed over him, weapon in hand, his eyes devoid of emotion.
“You can’t do this,” Artie said, shaking his head. “What would Emma think?”
Isaac blinked hard. For a moment, his forehead creased and Artie thought he’d gotten through to him. But that regret only lasted a moment and both men knew it. The lights flickered off again. Artie rolled to the side, his ears filling with another loud clang coming from where he’d just been. Artie scurried to his feet and ran. He’d become turned around in the confusion and worried about running into something, but he gained his bearings and rushed down the nearest aisle, trying to run as lightly—and quietly—as possible.
The lights stayed off. Artie never expected to feel so grateful for that. Until that moment, he never realized how well he knew the bunker, how he could travel its aisles even in the pitch black. He reached a cross section and crouched down, pressing himself against one of the shelves, holding his breath so he could hear better. When he was certain Isaac’s footsteps were several aisles away, he called out to him.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I can’t figure out how to get of here with all of your noise,” Isaac said, his footsteps coming closer.
Artie turned and ran, losing his focus in a panic, crashing into a shelf on the other side of the aisle. His body jarred and he barely managed to stay on his feet. Though Isaac’s footsteps grew louder, Artie inhaled deeply before taking another step. He rushed down the aisle, staying on his tiptoes, glancing up occasionally to see the same blackness above as was in front of him.
“This needs to stop,” Artie called out. “We need to survive together, if not for ourselves then for Emma and Julietta.”
The lights flickered back on and Artie came to a stop. He spun and spotted Isaac at the end of the aisle behind him. Artie tensed, holding up his hands in peace as Isaac took a few slow steps toward him.
“Like you said before, Julietta is probably dead,” Isaac said with eerie calmness. “Emma, too.”
Artie shook his head. “I was. . . upset when I said that, but we can’t think that way. If there’s the smallest chance they’re alive, we have to do everything in our power to—”
Isaac suddenly sprinted. Artie
nearly tripped over his own two feet as he turned to flee. He was relieved when the lights flipped off again, though he couldn’t run so quietly with Isaac right behind him. The harder he ran, the harder—and louder—he breathed. Isaac continued to warn him to shut up, each warning coming closer and closer. Artie couldn’t run forever. Though the bunker was massive and contained countless hiding spots, Artie knew Isaac would find him eventually.
Artie stretched out an arm toward the nearby shelf, knocking its contents to the floor, hearing Isaac trip over them. His curses fell farther back. When Artie reached the back wall, he was certain Isaac had fallen back enough for him to stop running. He felt his way to the end of a shelf and sat down, hugging his knees to his chest, curling into a ball to make himself as small a target as possible. As he caught his breath, his mind swirled, trying—yet failing—to figure out the right words to calm down Isaac.
When the lights flickered back on, they only did so for a moment. But that was enough time for Artie to see Isaac lurking a few feet away, their eyes meeting before darkness returned. Artie shook his head and opened his mouth to beg for peace, but Isaac crashed into him before he could say a single word. They wrestled in the dark, neither man able to see, their limbs entangled though their attempts to strike one another hit mostly air. Artie finally pushed him away and scrambled back, though Isaac sensed where he was going and dove for his legs, knocking him back down.
Artie scurried away again, separating long enough to hear a sound that had nothing to do with Isaac’s footsteps or grunting or crazed babble, a noise Artie had never heard within the bunker before.
“Did you hear that click?”
“Just shut up!” Isaac yelled as he crashed into Artie again, this time landing atop him.
