The Wall, page 9
“That’s how I took out Asher. Have you ever used one?”
“No.”
“What’s your preference mate?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares blankly at the ground.
“Let me guess, you’ve never used any of them?” I ask incredulously.
“Never.”
I don’t want him to win, but I don’t want him to die either. That is if he makes it that far.
“Let’s start with the ricochet. Grab it here and pull your arm back like this.”
He does.
“No, hold it vertically. When you throw it, snap your wrist.”
He throws it and it dive bombs into the ground. His hands weren’t made for warfare. I don’t know how a father could do this to his son. He’s a blindfolded cow meandering into the slaughterhouse. The look in his eyes tells me he’s quite aware of this fact. I should be brushing up, but instead I spend the next six hours teaching Kenan basic combat skills. Things my father and uncle had taught me. Hand-to-hand combat. How to use the opponent’s energy and momentum against them. A sword is as foreign to him as a curling iron is to me. I go through every weapon one by one. Some he has never seen. I wish one of them was a shield, as I would tell him to run and hide and protect himself any chance he got. To just worry about surviving the first levels, then tap-out. Once inside, maybe I can protect him—if I can keep myself alive. Besides, if he somehow passed the towers, Legion would crush him under his big toe.
As I head towards the door, I spot an enclosed training arena to my left. I approach the glass door and inside I spy Legion sparring with a couple of elites. Although sparring is putting it gently. Legion’s gait is casual, like he is taking the dog for an afternoon stroll. An elite approaches him, swinging his stunclub. Legion ducks and slams his fist into his chest, crushing his exoarmor, along with his ribs. The elite drops to the ground and fights for air, his lungs punctured.
It’s scary the way Legion asserts violence with barely any effort at all. What is even more scary are the words I notice scrolling in front of his face via a heads-up reader display. He is crushing elites while reading a book! I shake my head and turn away from watching any further carnage.
After a quick dinner, I make my way down to the archives. The archive room is cold, musty, and full of rats. Massive rats. Dinner back in The Middle. Luckily, I don’t mind their company. Seems either the rest of the contestants are above being in such a deplorable room as this, or they don’t care to do any research. Fine by me. I scroll through video after video on the giant holotube of Legion decimating his foe. For Legion, killing is just another bodily function.
I spend at least three hours watching old battles of previous Canonizations searching for a weakness. I sigh and take a deep breath sipping the last of my stale coffee now gone cold. He rarely repeats the same kill strike, I can spot no predictability in his movements. His training is impressive, his technique perfect. I can’t visualize any weapon that could effectively counter his attacks. Very rarely does he take a blow of any kind. Out of forty battles he only sustained three injuries from what I can tell. His left ankle, left thigh, and left shoulder. All surface wounds. Maybe I shouldn’t have come down here? My confidence now even more deflated. Two rats fight in the corner. I throw them part of my leftover dinner roll. Then I have a realization. I zoom in and watch those three battles in slow motion. Each time Legion was a tad slower than normal readying a defense posture. Is he blind in his left eye? Are his peripherals off? That has to be it.
Think I found my slingshot.
On top of a Defiance reconnaissance ridge in Reservation 9, Cephas, Jude, and two other Drecks watch the horror below them through turn of the century binoculars. Children scream as they, along with their parents, are ripped from their homes by two dozen Lazurite soldiers armed with plasma guns. Their black and gray exoarmor blend into the arriving dusk making them look like ghosts, adding to the terror of the traumatized children. One father tries to resist and is immediately shot. At least two dozen families are being marched towards Zion transports.
“What’s going on?” Jude asks through the side of his mouth. “They aren’t Defiance.”
Cephas reels in a long breath. “Word must be spreading that the lottery is just a guise for Renatus’s cell harvest. His numbers are down, so now he is using force.”
Jude spits in disgust. “It’s the Nazis all over again.”
Cephas raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you read history? Or read at all for that matter?”
“Shut it,” smiles Jude. “If we follow them to The Wall, maybe we can get some more men on the other side when it opens.”
“We wait.”
“Or maybe we ambush another patrol and swipe another exoarmor suit?”
“We wait.”
“But we still might be able to hack into it,” Jude implores.
“We wait,” Cephas repeats.
“Do you think maybe your faith in Asher is a bit too much?”
One of the reasons Cephas keeps Jude so close is that he isn’t afraid to question him or his leadership, which is a good thing. Sycophantic suck-ups and groupthink is the quickest way to derail a noble cause. Cephas wants to stay the reluctant leader as long as possible; he needs Jude and people like him to challenge him, keep him grounded.
Cephas places a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “My faith is in God, it is He who will decide if Asher is to be successful in our cause.”
“But you chose him.”
“Be happy I didn’t choose you.”
Jude bites his bottom lip. “I don’t know why I argue with you.”
“Because you enjoy it. Do you know what my wife used to tell me when we would argue?”
“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”
“That it wasn’t me she was arguing with.”
“She was as batty as you!” Jude is confused.
Cephas taps the ragged and frayed Bible that rests in his coat pocket. “It’s not flesh and blood that we battle, but angels and demons.”
“So, is that why we are waiting? We’re just supposed to do nothing?” Jude asks.
“No. We’re supposed to assist the angels.”
“And how may I ask do we do that?”
“We pray, among other things. Listen for God’s will.”
“I pray but hear nothing,” Jude admits.
“Cause your trap is always running. Be still. Be quiet.”
“It’s hard when all I hear is the crying of children, the rumbling of empty stomachs.”
“I didn’t say it was easy.”
Jude takes glimpses through his binoculars and recognizes one of the bawling children. “That’s my niece!”
Jude scrambles to his feet and lunges himself down the hill, crossbow in hand.
“Jude, wait!” Cephas yells. “There’s too many of them!” He nods to his security detail who rush off after him.
Jude’s left foot nicks a rock and he tumbles down the hill, but quickly pops his wiry body back up onto his heels. Before he can reset his momentum, the four Drecks tackle him to the ground.
“Let go of me! That’s my niece! Let go of me!”
Luckily, none of the Lazurites below has heard or seen them.
Cephas shakes his head and looks out to the horizon. Families dragged to their doom, narcotics and trash slowly float from the sky like turkey vultures coming in for a soft landing, hope dissipating. Just another day inside his walled off world.
“Be quiet. Be still,” Cephas murmurs. His timbre dubious. His tone lacks the confidence it displayed mere seconds ago when these same words were uttered to Jude.
Maybe tomorrow will bring better news.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We are marched into the coliseum like a herd of prizefighters. I feel like we are in Rome during the second century. Each of us are announced by name as the crowd cheers in jubilation. There is a giant video screen on both sides that lists all one hundred of us along with the odds of us winning. As progressive and civil as the Lazurites claim to be, they no doubt have placed wagers on their favorites. I’m told it’s what the Super Bowl used to be back in the days of the NFL. I peer up at the screen and see mine—500-1. Better than I expected, actually.
My name is finally announced. “Amos, the Slayer of the Son of Silas!” I pan the crowd, everyone is standing in applause, all but one—Sarai. She glares down at me in disdain. I’m the murderer of her beloved Asher. This is the first time I have seen her in more than five years. My eyes have never seen such beauty. I almost sink to the ground as a flood of emotions weakens me. I want to run to her. To tell her who I am. To exit this demented game and live the rest of my days with her in peace.
An elated Renatus is perched next to her in their luxury suite where champagne and an array of delicacies is served. He sucks on his long fingers that are slathered in caviar. I can’t tell if Sarai’s loathing is because of me or her father’s table manners. I peer around at my competitors, many of whom display confidence and bravado. Kenan shifts anxiously beside me, his hands shake uncontrollably. So do his knees.
An hour ago, we were finally debriefed on what to expect once inside Sophocles’ Towers. A series of twenty rooms in a maze-like configuration that shifts and changes every hour. Each room has a lever you pull once you have passed each challenge. Pull all twenty levers and you have succeeded. Then Legion.
If you survive the first level, there are surrender buttons in each of the upper levels if you are physically or mentally unable to pass that particular challenge. Press it, and you are officially out of the Canonization to be publicly shamed in true Zion fashion, but at least you’ll live. But many of the elites would rather die than to shame their family and be shipped off to The Middle to become a simple patrolman. I’m sure the irony is not lost on them that I’m that person in reverse. Groups of ten contestants were chosen at a time, five in each tower. Kenan and I were selected to go with the last group. A large holotube will show what is going on inside the towers so the crowd can enjoy with warped amusement our pain, our victories, and in many cases our demise.
As the first ten enter the towers the rest of us are quickly ushered into a sealed waiting room with no windows, preventing us from hearing or seeing what is happening inside the tower as we wait. There is food, restrooms, cots, and a massive video board that will show the progress of each participant. I grab two cups of coffee and sit next to Kenan.
“I guess we wait.”
“Reminds me . . . maaa . . . me of that line in one of Steven Seagal’s movies. ‘The anticipation of death is worse than death itself,’” Kenan stutters.
“Hard to kill,” I reply referencing the movie. “You’re a 1980’s fan also?”
“Still can’t beat the movies or the music.”
We spend the next six hours arguing over who would win in a fight—
Chuck Norris or Bruce Lee? Star Wars or Star Trek? It keeps our mind off what is happening outside these claustrophobic, concrete walls as contestant after contestant disappears from the board. Have they surrendered or have they been killed? Based on the cheers from inside the coliseum I would say the latter.
“I’m going to get some shuteye,” I inform Kenan and head over to a cot in the corner. As soon as I shut my eyes, I see Sarai. I have never seen her so revolted. I guess this is good as it proves she still cares for me. I wonder if she is ever happy. Does she feel trapped? Or has she capitulated to Zion’s grip? Minutes before I enter that realm between sleep and consciousness, the administrator barges through the door.
“Group two, you’re up!”
That didn’t take long.
The spectacle has gone on for three days thus far. Once inside the towers there are no breaks, no rests, no food, no water. You either pass, surrender, or die. We are the final ten left to be called. Out of the first ninety, two have made it through the towers and wait for the main event, which is Legion. Kenan exits the restroom, or the loo as the Lazurites call it, for the fourth time in as many hours.
“My stomach is like a whirlpool, must be the food,” Kenan tells me. But from the way he is shaking it is more than likely his nerves.
I point to the progress board. “Two have made it,” I say with as much optimism as I can muster.
“Is . . . is . . . is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“That means it is possible.”
“Maybe for you.”
“I’m just a simple patrolmen who made it to the Canonization. Anything is possible.”
I meander over to the nourishment station and grab two plates of ground meat that my taste buds are yet to identify. I hand one to Kenan.
“Fill up now, we’ll need it later.”
“You assume I’ll last that long.”
I also hand him a gallon of water. “Hydrate.”
“I already have to piss every five minutes.”
I peer into his eyes and see a boy wanting to be a man, someone who wants to make his father proud, someone bred for something altogether different. Cephas would always tell me that God has a specific plan for everyone. That each one of us is blessed with gifts to carry out that plan. His is not this, is mine? The words of my uncle invade my brain.
“If God is with us, who can be against us? Fear not!”
Then the words of my father.
“Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.”
Why do I always hear their words, carry them on my shoulders? Is it a gift or a burden? Will I ever be my own man? Or are we simply a combination of those who came before us? It sounds like someone is knocking on the door, but I peer down and see it is Kenan’s knees knocking together. He grinds his teeth, and it sounds like someone is using a metal file on hardwood. I don’t want him to die simply for the blood lust of the crowd. No life is worth someone else’s entertainment.
I place my hand on Kenan’s shoulder. “Just stay alive Kenan, and remember, once you reach the upper levels you can tap-out and go home. Don’t worry about what your father thinks. His legacy isn’t your burden to bear. Go home to your mother. There is no shame in surrendering. There are greater causes to die for. This isn’t one of them. Trust me.”
Again, I sound like my father. I might be talking to myself just as much as I am to him. Would my father want me here? Am I doing this for his legacy or Cephas’s? If by some miracle I make it, will I fight for my uncle’s cause or will I take Sarai and run? The door unlocks with a thud. Kenan’s face goes pale. My jaw clenches. The administrator lumbers inside, his boots trample the cold concrete floors, everything seems to move in slow motion. As he smiles, spittle forms a nest on the corner of his lips. I can barely hear him utter the words. “It’s time.”
We strap on exoarmor suits with holes cut into them near the chest, back, and head—kill zones. Apparently, they want us to survive a little longer then if we had nothing at all; prolongs the entertainment value I guess. Next stop, the weapons station. A tall mountain of muscle with sunken blue eyes and large white teeth mumbles at each one of us. “Only one chaps.”
To my delight there is a ricochet. Kenan eyes the assortment of killing paraphernalia and can’t make up his mind. It’s like asking a carpenter who has never seen a house before to choose his tools. I nudge him and nod to the thick stunclub. “Just worry about defense.”
The gates slowly swing open, and we are birthed from the tunnel and into the bright morning sunlight. The crowd is on its feet for the final ten. I peer up to the sultan suite and see Sarai reading a book. We are separated into groups of five and are led to our respective towers. I can sense Kenan’s relief when we are chosen for the same group. I have a feeling that relief will be short-lived.
Elite Lazurite guards chaperon us to the front of the tower. One of them murmurs under his breath, “Good luck sheep.” His cohort sniffs a cackle. I gaze to the sky and can’t help but wonder if this is the last time I’ll see the sun, the last time I’ll see Sarai. I scan the exuberant crowd and for a moment can’t help but feel sorry for them. Is this their source of joy? Do they really derive happiness watching others battle for their lives? Do they find solace in our pain? If Zion is paradise, why the Canonization? Empty lives desire such distractions, I guess. For Renatus and the ones who live forever, overcoming boredom must be a struggle. Things that are infinite are seldom cherished.
To my right, seated in the family section, is Amos’s mother, father, and brother. His mother weeps and can’t bear to watch. His father does his best to look proud and stoic. His brother on the other hand appears thrilled that I’m being sent to my doom. I wonder what Amos did to piss him off? Or maybe he really doesn’t believe I’m his brother? I shake that thought and focus on more pressing matters. We wait for what seems like eternity, then the doors to the towers slide open. Surely, they were waiting for all bets to be placed. Wonder if anyone took me?
“In you go chaps!” bellows a guard.
I take one last glance towards Sarai before we creep into the open door and enter the unknown. When all five of us cross the threshold the door slides shut, then locks with a clunk. Complete darkness. I can hear Kenan’s heavy, labored breaths.
“Take it easy mate,” I whisper to him. My sweaty palm grips my ricochet. I hear what sounds like a cat with metal paws tap dancing across the cement, scamper in front of us, then behind us. Then red iridescent lights illuminate the room and I see where the noise is coming from—robotic battle drones. Slim rods of steel with scourges for arms, and shoulder mounted plasma guns. Devilbots. The five of us scatter and dive into different locations as they fire their weapons. Kenan lies on the ground, gripped in fear. I remind him he has a weapon. “Your stunclub! Turn it on!”
He activates it and it comes to life fizzling with electricity. Not a moment too soon as a devilbot whips his scourge in his direction; he manages to deflect it while stumbling backwards. In my peripherals I see one charging my flank. I roll to the ground and fling my ricochet. It cuts through the dead stale air and decapitates the metal demon before returning to my hand. Another fires its plasma gun and barely misses Kenan. Before it gets off another shot I slice it in two with another throw of the ricochet. Kenan nods thanks. A contestant to my right is not so lucky, as a drone takes him to the ground by wrapping his legs with its scourge, then finishing him off with a shot of plasma.
