CHAPTER TEN
The following twenty-nine hours were the longest in Esti’s life. She had exhausted her small supply of food while continuously wondering why her captors hadn’t emptied her backpack when they’d snatched her from Houston. The ship had been creaking and groaning around her all night, making it impossible to sleep. And to stay away from the crew, who passed just often enough to keep her on hair-trigger, she had holed up in a storage closet about the size of a porthole. All night her back had been pressed against the steel hull, and she was beginning to think that taking out the crew wasn’t going to be her biggest problem. That would be simply standing up.
But ever so slowly the announcements over the ship’s intercom had inched toward the thirty-hour mark, and she could feel the early morning sun beginning to heat up the metal behind her.
“One hour to docking. All crew return to your positions.”
“Finally.” Esti muttered. Still, before she opened the door she listened for any crewmen passing by. It would be both very annoying and anticlimactic to be caught this early in the show.
Finally when she could hear nothing more outside, she slowly began to inch the door open. However as soon as she tried to move her back let loose a flare of pain, and she gritted her teeth.
Better get this over with. She thought, and jerked herself up.
“Arg…” She bit back a curse as her vertebrae grated against each other, trying to adapt back to their normal position after being cramped in a closet for close to thirty hours. Still wincing as the pain began to abate, Esti slowly slipped down the hallway toward the ladder at the far end which led up to the deck. However she had a sudden idea, and quickly pulled out one of the explosives, checking the fine print on the back of the detonator. Her eyes immediately found the text she was looking for: Operable at distances up to five-hundred yards. Signal penetrates all metal, even lead, and breaks through most low-grade radio jammers.
This might just work. She licked her lips and turned back around, toward a door marked simply with an arrow pointing down. It slid open effortlessly, and she could tell that this was the one door that was continually oiled. Below it, she was sure, would be the engine room.
Roughly twenty minutes later Esti emerged from the door missing three of the explosives. They were all sitting about fifty feet below, jammed into cracks in the engine. With luck, she thought, they might even sink the ship.
“Thirty minutes until docking!” The intercom shouted again. “All crewmen to their stations!”
Esti smiled softly and walked back over to the ladder. However just as she was about to start climbing she suddenly remembered the other cages. All five of them held captives. And if the ship did sink the hold would be the first thing to go under.
How much time do I have? Esti grimaced.
“Twenty-five minutes!” The intercom answered.
That was nowhere near enough to break the cages with the Froster. Her only hope would be if she could find a key…
Face it Esti. An angry voice spoke up in a corner of her mind. It’s either them or you. Take it or leave it. It’s not that hard.
She had never been indecisive before in her life, and caught halfway up the ladder this was a completely new experience for her. Esti had never held someone’s life in her hands before, much less five, and she was suddenly reminded of how young she really was.
“Twenty-three minutes! All crew report NOW!” The intercom blared obtrusively. In that moment Esti began to climb, quashing any mental protest. Survival instinct had taken over.
About five minutes later she emerged from the labyrinth of ladders and passages and onto the deck of the ship, for the first time realizing how massive it really was. The ancient freighter’s deck was large enough to land a small plane on, and coated in grease and hundreds of crates of cargo.
What exactly are they transporting? Esti wondered for a moment, leaning on the side of a wooden one standing next to the hatch, trying to get a good view at the back of the ship. A moment later she found her answer, as the soaked and rotted wood collapsed behind her releasing a spew of beer.
Figures.
She didn’t worry about it; the pounding rain would wash it off soon enough. She was more worried about reaching the wheelhouse unseen, though right now that didn’t seem such a daunting task. For a ship this large it seemed hugely undermanned, and the only sailors she could see were holding on for dear life.
Sailors? She thought, a slight chuckle escaping her throat. And they’ve never been in a storm before?
Then, as soon as she took her first step out of the shelter of the hatch, a monstrous wave crashed into the starboard side of the ship. Her feet blew out from under her and Esti went skidding down the oily deck.
Remember, oil and water don’t mix! Abraham’s voice whispered in her head.
Nice time for that lesson dad. Esti thought, remarkably calmly for a person about to be tossed into the sea. She had seen a loose rope by the side of the ship while she’d been scanning the deck, and a plan had already formulated in her mind.
Here it comes. She thought grimly yet excitedly, the adrenaline flooding her system a feeling she wholeheartedly enjoyed. One, two-
Her hands flashed up like striking vipers and clasped the hanging rope just as she was about to fly over the edge. There was a single moment of dread as she wondered if the rope would go taut or fall flat, and then a flood of relief as it snapped straight in her hands. Through the blinding rain she saw the ship receding and the ocean frothing below her in a thousand hungry whirlpools. Esti was weightless, swinging over a vast void on a fraying rope with absolutely nothing to save her if she fell.
And she was loving every second of it.
In the wheelhouse Caius angrily smashed the off button, both breaking it and silencing the intercom for good. If they hadn’t reported to the wheelhouse by now, well, they were as good as dead in that storm. Still, as always, the Dutchman would ride it out. He could see the skyline of Philadelphia; a faint silhouette the drenched horizon growing painstakingly nearer with each passing minute. In fact, he was concentrating so intently on the skyline that he failed to notice the spectral form flying over the ocean to his left. Later he would wonder how he missed it.
Esti landed catlike on the deck outside the steps leading up to the wheelhouse, the rope sweeping harmlessly away over through the rain. She took each step one at a time, grasping the railing as forcefully as she could. Still she slipped at least five times before making it to the third step, the wind doing its level best to knock her into the roiling waves. Somehow though, she did make it to the top, and once she did all that stood in her way were the five yards of open deck to the wheelhouse door.
But she wasn’t ready yet. There was one more thing to do.
The Dutchman was hardly a minute away from Philadelphia when Caius heard a colossal bang echo through the bowels of the ship. The floor below him shook with the reverberations of the explosion, and after a few seconds of sputtering the immense freighter stopped dead in its tracks. For a moment he just stood in place, staring at the dashboard before him where there had, two seconds before, been a panel of flashing lights. Now each and every one was extinguished. Only a massive engine failure could have caused something like this-
Esti felt the explosion ricochet throughout the ship less than a second after she detonated the bombs, and a few seconds later what had been a dull growl petered out to a reedy whine, then into complete silence. The engine had died. The ship was stranded. It was time.
She took the last few yards to the wheelhouse at a dash, opting for the theory that sheer speed would overcome slipperiness. Oddly enough it did, and she grabbed the door without so much as a single slide. She waited a single second before yanking it open, and immediately fired straight into the room beyond.
Caius felt the bullet pierce his right leg with a sort of strange disbelief. The last few seconds had happened too quickly for him to comprehend, and the searing pain cascading up and down his spinal cord did nothing for his comprehension. Unaware of just how badly he was injured, the stocky crime lord attempted to turn around and immediately crumpled to the deck. The last thing he saw was his assailant, and for a moment he just stared in shock. It was a girl! A freaking teenage girl! She was standing there in the open doorway, looking windswept and weather-beaten and just as shocked as him, one of his standard-issue Magnums held loosely in her hand. Her index finger was still frozen on the trigger, smoke still curling lackadaisically up from the silver barrel. Her other hand held one of his RC explosives, no doubt the same thing that had just fried the engine. And slowly through the dark mists of unconsciousness he saw the finger unwind from the trigger, the gun slowly fall from the slackened hand. It took a million seconds to fall and only one to be swept into the sea by the wind and rain. And the second after that, the girl had followed it into the storm, dissolving into the pounding water as if she had never existed.
Esti felt herself falling toward the sea, her body mechanically forming itself into an arrowlike point. She entered the water splash-lessly, soundlessly, painlessly. All feeling had left her body. Silently, brokenly, she slipped back up to the surface under the shadow of the ship, drifting uncaringly over the eddies and waves. The darkness was closing in and she didn’t care. The only thing she could see was that slow-motion image of the man she had shot falling to the ground in pain, clutching at what had, less than a second before, been a fully functional leg. Her bullet had reduced it to a mass of blood and bone, a gaping hole torn in the fabric of her existence. She had done that. She had ripped that gash into that living flesh. She had torn it apart.
It’s cold. She thought distantly, no longer caring about anything that had once, for some reason or other, seemed important. Her father. Her world. Her life. There was nothing left to care about.
It’s so cold. So, so cold.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The creaky elevator slowly descended through Big Ben, Philip sitting against the wall, his eyes closed in thought. There was an obvious way to enforce a mass evacuation and make it look like a rebellion. A massive fire would take care of all of their needs. The city would be obliterated. People would be running for the countryside. Judas’s Exterminators would swoop in and blast away the smoking remainder into the wind. It would work like clockwork. But why was he so reluctant?
People will die in the fire. You know that. There needs to be another way.
They’ll die anyway if we can’t do something.
The elevator jerked to a halt and Philip slowly stood, clacking his cane on the ground before him, once again in character of the old man on the street. As he walked his mind continued to battle, but he always knew what the conclusion would be.
The fire is the only way. If enough people are warned most will escape.
No. There is another way.
There is no other way to make this look like a rebellion. It needs to be convincing. And to be convincing there must be a loss of life.
When did you become so mechanical?
There is no other way.
You have twelve hours. Think of one!
He stopped on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. It was a clear, brilliant blue, the summer sun its glistening centerpiece. And suddenly he knew. Double negatives cancel out. There would be a fire. And then there would be a flood.
Xavier slowly regained consciousness, and judging by the encroaching darkness outside he had lain on the floor through the day. Immediately he peered around the room, searching for something different than before, trying to justify the intense paranoia that had overcome him before.
But there was nothing.
It was simply a brick room. The brick was new, but there were thousands of possible explanations for that. The wheel was strange, but it was just an antique, nothing to be remotely terrified of. The stain on the floor could have been anything. It could be coffee for all he knew. The only blood in the room was his own, dried and scabbed on his fists from when he had attacked the door. And even if the door itself had locked automatically, there were still easy explanations for that.
Suddenly there was a subtle click behind him and Xavier, still on hair-trigger, spun around with his fists raised, all of his doubts washed away. The paranoia had returned full force. However the man who walked into the small room was hardly worth the trouble. He looked to be older than fifty, and in his right hand he held a wooden cane stylized with an owl.
“Who the hell are you?” Xavier asked defensively, cautiously lowering his fists.
“I should ask you the same question.” Philip said calmly, staring carefully back. The government had used child spies before, but this one didn’t fit the bill. He was skinny, malnourished and shorter than he should have been, his skin pale and stretched tightly over his narrow face. And there was a strange quality emanating from his beetle-black eyes, a strange sparkle that could have been wonder, vitality, or a sprinkle of both.
“I asked first.”
“I’m older.”
Xavier continued to glare suspiciously, the defensive-child side of him making an appearance. “I’m stronger.”
“I doubt that.” Philip waggled his free hand. “See, I have a cane.”
“I’m quicker.”
“Fine. Now tell me why you’re in the river-house.” Philip asked, beginning to tap the ground impatiently, his cane making a sharp clack against the stone.
“Wha…?” Xavier looked quizzically around. “River house?”
Philip rolled his eyes angrily. “What the hell are you doing in here kid!”
“The door locked behind me!” Xavier protested, his voice taking the high pitch of an angry child. “I had no idea what this place is! I tried to get out, I really did!”
Philip raised his eyebrows, studying the strange case before him. “I’m not sure if I should believe you.” He began. “But by the fact that you don’t look like a spy tells me I should.”
“A spy…?” Xavier asked, flabbergasted. “What the…”
“Look kid, just bear with me.” Philip began, walking over to the far wall where copper ship’s wheel stood. “I don’t have much time. This room was built to control the flooding of the Thames, probably made originally by the government for crowd control.”
“Sick.”
“I agree completely.” Philip replied, almost smiling at Xavier’s disgusted innocence. “But now it works to our advantage.”
“Who is our?” Xavier asked acutely.
“You’re sharper than you seem.” Philip said. “I will explain it all soon.” Even though I have no idea who you are or whether I should take you with me. “But very soon, in roughly ten minutes time, a fake rebellion will be staged in the streets of London.”
“Why?” Xavier was curious now, once again with the voice of a small child.
“London is set to be exterminated. To only way to evacuate in time is to stage this rebellion as a smokescreen.” Philip explained. “People will start screaming, shouting, running around the streets with guns and knives. That will be the facilitated part. Now the very real part is the fire that will be started by a few of my people, each in a key point of London. Those fires will ignite the entire city very quickly, and to make sure as many people can escape the city safely I’m going to flood the Thames as a surefire escape route. Not everyone will get out…” Philip shook his head. “But the number of living will be much higher than after an extermination.”
For a moment Xavier was silent. His mind was experiencing technical difficulties, unable to comprehend what had just been presented. His city would be destroyed, eradicated, wiped off the map. His haven would still exist, but every possible entrance would be buried amid ash and debris. In a few short moments his entire life had crumbled around him.
“And what happens to the survivors?” He finally asked, timid and scared.
“Most people will make it to the countryside.” Philip said solemnly. “There’s a number of small villages and towns to choose from out there, as well as the usual natural landscape. Caves, forests, lakes, they’ll all find a way to survive. Humans always do.”
Xavier was silent for a long time, and Philip kept checking the time on his lackluster watch, a gift from Judas for timing sake. Finally the boy spoke, seeming smaller than he ever had before. “And me?”
“You’re coming with me.” Philip said with surprising surety. Instinct had kicked in, and it had told him to trust the boy. There was something, a feeling or an emotion or even an aura that he exuded that Philip had never felt before. What he did know was that this teenage boy, as childlike and fragile as he was inside, would be important. Very important.
“Where?”
Philip thought for a moment. Judas had told him to come to Ál-Jalîya, revealing that he himself operated out of the Capital. They were to rendezvous there where he would be given protection of the kind that only power of a highest degree could offer. But now…
“Moscow.” He said finally. That was the only location he knew where another of the twelve was stationed. Thomas and he had broken the rules and given each other their information as a fail-safe, in case either of them ever needed a place to hide. And now was the time to cash in.
“Moscow?” Xavier said questioningly.
“It’s a frigid, isolated city in the east. One of my colleagues is there. And-” Philip paused, more for effect than anything. “It would be the last place anyone would look.”
“I guess…” Xavier began unsurely, grinding his teeth in indecisiveness.
“Good enough for me.” Philip said blithely. He readied himself by the wheel, waiting for the signal.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Quivering reflections of candlelight flickered up and down the murky waters of the Thames as Philip’s torch-runners dashed to their set positions around the city of London. Every few moments one would duck into an alcove or behind a building, standing stock-still, listening for any followers. Then they would rush out again, their disturbingly destructive spirits aroused with the macabre love for fire that every human shares. Soon the entire city would be engulfed, yet some would still gaze at it in wonder, watching the world around them warp as the intense heat transformed London into a land of mirages and fluttering currents. Then the waters would flood, covering the burnt and creaky necropolis that remained, giving it a few last moments of dignity before it was razed to the ground.
Thousands of miles away, in the skies over the Himalayas, Michael Haley and his fleet of Exterminators rose into the air and began their short journey north toward their target. Inside his confined cockpit the man with two names felt his heart begin to beat faster as the adrenaline started to kick through his brain. He had given everything a chance to work, the best chance he possibly could. Now all he could do was his job, and hope that Philip had managed to do his. Hopefully, in a half-hour, he would arrive over a ruined and empty city.
And if not?
He didn’t want to think about that.
Back in the river-house Philip stood as still and erect as a meerkat on lookout, waiting for the signal he hoped more than knew was coming. His watch had counted past the point of no return, and Judas would arrive in less than fifteen minutes. The fires should already be started, his torch-runners running away from the city like everyone else in the hopefully frantic crowds. The boy, Xavier, was standing patiently in the corner, apparently lost in thoughts of his own. He was still reevaluating his thoughts on the boy himself, but his instincts were still saying to take him to Moscow. Whatever. Stop focusing on that. Philip thought. The only way you’re going to survive this is with complete focus on the flood. That was when he heard the gunshot in the distance, followed by two more in quick succession. Without further ado he heaved against the ancient wheel with every ounce of strength left in his aging body, and ever so slowly it began to turn.
Xavier was not lost in his thoughts. To be closer to the truth, he was floating in them. None were flowing through his mind; they were all still trying to get in. The world had begun to move quickly, far more quickly than he was used to. Moscow? Moscow? A thought pounded through, only to be quickly displaced by another. What’s going to happen to London?
What’s going to happen to me?
Who is this Philip?
Will I ever see the fish again?
What will happen to the people?
What did he mean rebellion?
Why are we going to Moscow?
Who is this colleague?
Why would anyone be looking for us?
Are we in danger?
What the hell is happening here?!
STOP!!
The final voice roared through his mind like a sonic-boom, sending the others tumbling away like so many insignificant bowling pins. He relaxed the muscles he had unknowingly tensed, just in time to hear the gunshots in the distance and see Philip begin to turn the wheel.
The waters of the Thames began their ascent slowly, methodically, unnoticed by the frenetic mobs running from the leaping flames. They engulfed pavement, burned trees, and swallowed building in the blink of an eye, never slowing on their quest to eat away at the city beneath them. People had begun to dive into the rising waters of the murky, sediment-riddled river, just escaping the fire’s wicked reach while the river began to climb a little faster as the man in the river-house found his rhythm. Then the waves rocketed up the banks, eating away at the walkways and streets themselves, neutralizing the flickering flames with a subtle hiss wherever they met. The flood line rose up to the ground-level, past the sidewalk, up the sides of buildings until the river was pouring into first-floors and covering the shacks and shanties that littered the streets. People and animals alike were carried away by the gentle-yet-raging waters, holding on to whatever they could find. The only still figure in the city stood on the roof of a five-story building, the tallest one there, watching as the land around him was cleared. Finally when he could see nothing more than rabid waters and manic flames, he emptied his gun into the air, tossed it away, and dove into the swollen river below.
Philip heard the final gunshots and quickly reversed his grip on the wheel, twisting it back with as much energy as he could muster. He had no idea how the world would look when he emerged, whether he would be greeted by charred corpses or a drowned city, but he could hope. After nearly a minute of turning he stopped and checked his watch. Judas would be there in less than five minutes. It was time to run.
“Xavier!” He called to the boy, obliviously sitting in the corner of the river-house. “We need to leave! Now!”
“Hmm? Oh, right.” Xavier said, snapping out of his reverie. Together they walked out into the city, both giving their own gasps at what they saw.
London had become a ghost town. Buildings were ruined, burnt to the bone and filled with turbid water. The streets were strewn with slime, and every few feet there was a small flash as one of Xavier’s precious fish lit up the pavement with their final glimmers. The sky was dark and gloomy, storm clouds rolling across the weakened sun.
And soon they’ll be broken. Philip thought. How do we get out?
While Philip tried to remember the quickest route out, Xavier scanned the streets for something, anything that resembled a tank. Finally his eyes lighted upon a small glass vase the size of a tissuebox, remarkably whole in a row of shattered counterparts. The sign over the door read Fulton’s Flowershop, creaking and blowing in the wind. Xavier quickly ran over and filled up the vase with water from one of the many puddles, and scooped up as many fish as he could find still alive on the streets. There was a piece of anonymous material trapped under an upturned table; it may have once been some kind of tarp. Xavier ripped it into a strip of the right size and then curled it over the opening of the vase, fixing it in place with a piece of string he caught blowing in the breeze.
“Xavier!” Philip called from a ways away, finished mapping out the city in his head. “Get over here!” He seemed excited, and Xavier turned around curiously to a foreign sound. Philip was almost a hundred feet down the street, revving the engine to an abandoned car that had somehow survived the flood and the fire. Xavier dashed toward him, carefully cradling his makeshift fish-tank in his arms. “Get in!” Philip yelled as Xavier swung around to the passenger side and crawled into the backseat, yanking the door shut behind him. A strange sort of exhilaration began to fill him as the animal strength of the machine roared around him. The only cars he had ever seen had been driving by on the street outside his orphanage. Now he was in one, about to fly through those streets himself. His firefly fish blinked softly in their vase as he strapped himself in, as if anticipating the ride ahead. Then Philip slammed on the gas, considerably left full by the previous owner, and the car tore down the street in a cloud of dust.
The fleet of Exterminators broke through the clouds overhead; their pilots searching the ground below for the bustling city they thought would be sitting there. Instead they saw a burnt husk of brick and stone carved in two by a swollen river. It was a generic ghost, no different than the broken hulk of Annandale. Michael Haley groaned outwardly, while inside he was sighing with relief. They had succeeded. The city had been evacuated. And now there was only one thing left to do…
The Exterminators fanned out across the city, making their customary circle with their commander settling in the middle. One by one they drifted to their optimum height, orbiting slowly until each was in their specified position. Michael drifted slowly into the center until he was positioned over Big Ben itself, surveying the once-great city one last time. Just before he gave the order to drop he thought he saw movement on one of the streets near the edge of his vision. As the payload hit the ground he thought he could make out a small car, racing maniacally toward the countryside, trying to escape the blast-zone.
And then the image was obliterated. Eradicated. Erased in a blaze of blinding light.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cold, frothing waves washed over the sandy beach of the former Delaware River, where skyscrapers and processing plants had once stood. The sky was a sparkling, crackling nexus of sparks, discharging massive blasts into the ocean. Pitch-black thunderheads blanketed the city, rolling from horizon to horizon with no end in sight, dumping torrential rains onto the tired, broken city.
Yet, through it all, a solitary figure still roamed the beach. The man was just too short to be considered average, with short-cropped blond hair that was just beginning its transition to gray. Oceanic eyes centered a lined, weather-beaten face, showing marks of an age far beyond his well-toned thirty-six year old body. The beach sand crunched softly underneath his sneakered feet, creating an uneven drumbeat to his right-favoring limp. On his head sat a baseball cap, a relic of a forgotten time when sports were still played and life was still led, clashing perfectly with his blue button-down and black cargo slacks. Soaked to the bone but seemingly oblivious to the wind and rain, he continued to trek up and down the expanse of murky brown until he finally found what he was looking for.
A body was lying on the sand, half-in, half-out of the pounding surf. As August drew closer, he began to rush, knowing that in this kind of weather it would disappear at any moment. The final few feet he took in a slide, landing beside it and quickly but carefully carrying the limp girl from the mercy of the waves to the relative safety of a decrepit boardwalk.
His hand frantically felt for a pulse, slackening in relief as it felt the weak but dogged beat on the side of her neck. She was alive, somehow alive.
Not much longer. His mind warned.
August gritted his teeth, lifting her up once again as he searched for his car in the blinding rain. Finally after nearly a minute of scanning the sidewalk he found it and unlocked the doors. The girl he placed carefully in the passenger seat, snapping her seatbelt in place both for safety and for fortification. He didn’t need her sliding off the seat and injuring herself even worse. However, almost as soon as he started driving her eyes slid carefully open.
Esti felt herself slowly return to life, hoping that it was simply a dream, a coping mechanism, but somewhere deep inside knowing that it was something more. That’s ridiculous. She thought cynically. You’re dead. You fell into the ocean, and you’re dead. You’re dead and floating at the bottom of the sea.
But there was movement, some kind of airy movement. She could smell the faint scent of old leather, intermingling with an even fainter aroma of fried food. But she was dead. Dead. Deader than dead. She had to be dead… because if she were dead there would be no way to remember.
But now there were sounds… the sound of wind whistling through empty buildings and rain pounding on empty streets. There was a rumbling surrounding her, smooth and concave and strangely comfort-ing. There was a rustle of fabric against fabric, and the subtle click of a tooth against a tooth. They were the sounds of a car, and of the person driving it. They were sounds of life.
No! I am not alive! I am dead! I must be dead!
But then her eyes were sliding open, despite her heartfelt wish to keep them tightly shut. And they were seeing not the bottom of the ocean, not the empty void of death, but a windshield and the water-covered street beyond. There was a dashboard, with a speedometer and a gas gauge and every light imaginable. There was a sliding vent, emitting slight wisps of heat. There was a gray ceiling, a black fabric floor. A red-marked lock on a wood-accented door.
No! This cannot be happening! I’m dead! I fell over the side, I JUMPED over the side! I’m dead! I can’t remember! I won’t remember! I’m DEAD!
It was no use, the floodgates had opened and images were pouring out. A ship, fighting crushing waves and blinding spray. A wheelhouse, dark and fragmented by slivers of pulsating orange light. The sound of a gunshot, short and loud. Recoil. Her unprepared arm being pulled, yanking back as the barrel swung up in the air. And then the man she had shot, knelt on the floor, crawling in pain, clutching the mass of blood and flesh that had been his right leg. His eyes, locked into hers. Disbelief. Crazed disbelief. Reflexes. Wind. Blasting. Flying. Falling. Plummeting. Diving. Ocean. Water. Cold. Cold. Cold.
Stop! Stop!! STOP!!! She screamed silently, trying to push those pictures away into a place where they would never emerge. But they refused to disappear, orbiting through her agonized mind, mocking her pitiful attempts at expulsion.
“Stop…” She whimpered aloud, her face contorted into a mask of pain. “Stop… please stop…”
“It’s okay.” A calm, sublime whisper slipped through her haze of anguish. “It’s alright. You’re safe. Completely safe.”
“No… I shot him. I shot… I shot him… And… And…”
“It’s alright.” The voice continued. Softly. Infuriating in its smoothness. “You had no other choice. You’re fine Esti… Everything is going to be fine.”
“You don’t understand!” Esti almost screamed, turning toward the source of the voice. Her vision had cleared by now, and August watched her serenely. “I shot him! I shot-” She paused, registering what he had just said. “Wait… how do you know my name?”
“I knew your father.” The man replied. “He used to tell me about you, everything about you. He sent a message to Peter a few days ago, how he had told you to come to Philadelphia if something went wrong. Today I found you one the beach, out cold. You’re lucky actually, a few more minutes and you probably would have gone back into the waves.”
“Well… that would be an improvement.”
“Hey!” August screeched the car to a halt, the brakes grinding against the empty road. In a split second his calm demeanor had changed radically; he was now on the brink of fury. “Don’t talking like that!”
“But-”
“Don’t give me any goddamn excuses!” He said commandingly. “You have every right to be alive right now! Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have your life? And you just want that to be gone, just throw that away? Are you kidding me?” He shook his head angrily. “An improvement?! Now tell me hotshot, how would your death improve this world? Because just as far as I can see, it’s pretty fucked up as it is, about as fucked up as it will ever be. I don’t really think it can get much worse!”
“I-”
“Don’t even try! People are dying in the streets! Plague is rampant! Entire cities are being wiped off the map, razed to the ground, people burning alive inside their homes! Food is running out, water is infected with bacteria. Miles and miles of land is covered in radioactive waste; nothing it ever going to grow there again. The ocean is as good as dead, there’s so much oil floating around in it that the only things left living are plankton and brine shrimp! The entire world is being shut down, set to run on clockwork that doesn’t exist. The doomsday clock reached midnight centuries ago, and it’s not turning back anytime soon. And you’ve been gifted with a good life amid all this, with a father and an education and people who care about you! Do you know how many others would want to have that?” He was practically livid now.
“No sir.” Esti said stiffly. “I guess that I don’t.”
“Damn straight.” He began to drive again, slowly picking up speed until they were once again racing through the dilapidated streets.
“I just want to forget…” She began.
“Forget what now?”
“The gun. The bullet. Everything…” She turned back to him with a strange sense of self-righteousness igniting in her soul. “You know what I want to forget?” Esti made no urge to control it. She wanted him to feel everything she was about to throw. “I want to forget running through that alleyway after I saw my father get his head blown apart by a bullet! I want to forget waking up on the hold of that goddamn ship! I want to forget the other people in that hold, the ones I couldn’t save, the ones that they’re going to sell in some foreign port as slaves or kill just for the hell of it! I want to forget the twenty-nine hours I spent squeezed into a closet, hearing people walk past and never making a sound, knowing that if they heard me I’d be one of those slaves. I want to forget being thrown into the sea, swinging around that ship. I want to forget looking into that cabin, pulling that trigger. I want to forget that gunshot, and seeing that hole where his leg should have been! I want to forget everything goddammit! Every fricking thing!”
The man was looking at her in a strange way, not angry, not even annoyed. He actually seemed… satisfied. And strangely… so did she.
“Cathartic wasn’t that?” He asked with a strange smile. “One of the most underrated forms of healing. Purging every last emotion until it’s all out, all in the open. And once you’ve heard it all you may have found things that you missed…” He turned back to the road, his eyes fixing on the asphalt. “Discovering that your pain, or some of it, is unfounded.”
“You’re a psychologist?” Was all Esti could think of asking.
“Name’s August.” He replied simply, grinning, returning to his original tranquility. She had the sneaking suspicion that he’d never left it. “Pleasure to meet you.”
And Esti couldn’t help but start grin back.
And that should be it for Part One. If I missed italicizing a thought or typed 'saw' instead of 'was' or any typos of the sort please tell me (and say where they are)... I'll admit that I'm a terrible proofreader! I won't apologize for it being so long again because I already did
but if you managed to read through and persevere, thanks and I hope it was worth your time and trouble!
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