Arise (Book Three in The Arson Saga) (5 page)

Chapter Seven

K
rane ended the call
with stillness in his voice. Hoven’s order to return to Salvation immediately didn’t sit well with him. He never should have uttered the truth of what had transpired. His inability to bring the Source back had infuriated Hoven, and with good reason. Still, he could not abandon his objective.

Dropping the cell phone into his pocket, he rested against the front fender of the onyx Mercedes and took in the landscape—soulless properties, the superfluous fences bordering no life at all, and now, the empty human bodies lying motionless on the front lawn of Adam’s former home. Snow descended like clockwork upon pieces that had proven their purpose. The tranquil hum of recent violence stirred the winter air, a brief but welcome chill.

The doctor brushed his hair away from apathetic eyes, mind still adjusting to the events of the last several hours. He couldn’t help thinking Lamont looked so completely feeble scrambling like an infant to his feet; so desperate the mongrel was as he tried to fight fate with every weak movement. Krane truly pitied him, finding a sense of dim amusement in the panic and the fear, no doubt a memory he might return to in time.

But he had to be honest with himself. The situation
had
become complicated. The pieces left in this war were now spread wildly out of place on a chaotic board in which there appeared to be no divine orchestrator. But perhaps he could become the absent deity. Perhaps he always was the one who had explored the makings of a scattered, divided race of man.

Brother against brother, mother against daughter, son against father.
Adam’s warning echoed inside him. But there was no stopping it. The new order was coming fast. And that reality gave his mouth a motive to wear a twisted, ready smile.

Adam—the savior Saul Hoven referred to as 217—the boy who was indeed a man, had more than exceeded Krane’s expectations in a moment of intense struggle. The display of power and control and blind fury—what dark beauty it was. And how he’d healed the Phoenix—well, modern medicine paled in comparison. With a snicker, satisfaction and resolve washed over him. Krane knew this massacre was flawless arithmetic in every way. Adam was anything but gone, which left the reason for his blood’s ill performance a bittersweet mystery. The Source regained his abilities, snatched the Phoenix, and gave Lamont a new hole to breathe out of.

Maybe up until now, he’d allowed himself to be fooled into believing that he was here, at the beginning of an end, to fulfill the wishes of an already obsolete puppet master. But he was beginning to see it clearly. He knew his development—his enhancement—was for a purpose. Maybe it wasn’t
the
future he had witnessed in a vision on their ride in to reclaim the Source, but it was
a
future. One that did not have Saul Hoven as its leader but instead a more fit and true vessel, one who could usher superior knowledge and order into a refined species.

“I’ll kill that freak!” Lamont’s threat derailed the doctor’s train of thought. For a moment, he had been lost in a trance, taken back or forward, depending on how one looked at a possible future, to a time he swore he’d seen clearer than the sunlight lazily spilling through the trees. No matter how hard it tried, it could not stop the frost. “I swear it…on my mother’s eyes. I swear I’ll end the puny runt for good! He’ll beg…for my mer…cy!”

“Your blind rage will not save you, Jeb. Such p-p-petty war cries will do us no-no-n-no good. Don’t waste your breath!”

Lamont’s eyes bloomed with fury. “You’re awfully…calm. Ain’t that curious.” He coughed, gurgling a black mixture of blood and saliva. The fallacies in the mutt’s face started to show. Every time he flared his nostrils, every splinter in those bulging cheeks, every ounce of fear sweating out meant he’d been beaten.

“I am in control.” Krane believed his words. They were real, more real than the air that chilled his lungs, more real than his broken ankle.

Lamont’s jaw hung open. New confusion splashed in his stare. “Nobody’s in control no more.” He hawked the remaining wad of tobacco gook from behind his fat lip, clawing at the door handle of the Mercedes with a trembling left hand, and with his right, he sponged the fresh bullet wound in his throat with three thick fingers. Two gaudy rings soaked up some of the red leaking from the puncture. It seemed the dog tended to his sickness better than expected.

But what of
your
sickness?
his thoughts broke in.
The marks of
your
becoming. Yes, he already suspects a change in you.

He doesn’t know the truth. To him, I’m just an infection. He cannot see what I see. What I have already seen.

Just a rabid animal.

Yes, just a rabid animal.

Perhaps you underestimate him. Perhaps he has played for too long. How much longer should he be allowed to play?

Krane crawled toward his glasses, which lay in the center of the street. As he slithered, his jacket scraping the blacktop, his chin already bruised, he noticed a beetle easing out of a crack in the road. It crept closer, and he studied the insect as its wings flapped once before tucking back. The beetle’s structure had a strange, lovely quality to it. Bent, syringe-like legs. An abrupt, horned nose. A black canvas body—uniquely grotesque, like modern man.

After retrieving the glasses, Krane put the warped material on. One of the nose pads was missing, and the piece that held it now dug into the bridge on the right side. Also, the lenses were chipped and cracked in certain sections, a miniature web splintering out from the center of each cut of glass. For a second, the beetle seemed to look up at him. Did it sense what he was becoming? Did it sense a dark fate? Could it feel anything at all?

He could barely make out the insect’s shape now. Wearing the glasses blurred his true vision. Krane adjusted them to test if anything had changed. Perhaps it was just the way they sat on his face. But he was a bit startled to find his vision still very much a blur.

“Bizarre,” he muttered, taking off the glasses. He squinted, only to discover that his sight was, in fact, clearer without the prescription lenses. He couldn’t believe it. His sight wasn’t perfect, but it was clear enough to see. He felt anew, revived somehow. Grinning, the doctor pressed his thumb atop the beetle’s back and pushed until the insect was crushed.

“And you didn’t even see it coming, my little friend,” he whispered to it, licking his thumb clean of the deep yellow fluids.

“Move your carcass, Manny! The sky’s…changin’ quick. Don’t look friendly,” Lamont wheezed. “And boss…wants us back…ASAP. He’s gonna…tear you…a new one, mark my words.” He heard the dog attempt to chuckle.

“I hate it when you call me Manny, you p-p-path-pathetic sack of meat!”

“Get in here…before I run you over. Last time I ask nice.”

Krane noticed a red trail dripping down Lamont’s arm. He was losing a lot of blood fast.

The tired doctor broke his glasses in half and tossed them. He didn’t need them anymore. Teeth clenched, he pushed himself up onto his knees, struggled to stand straight but ultimately fell over. Pain ran up his leg and body. Lamont’s impatience resulted in him honking the horn. With a curse, Krane achingly limped toward the passenger door and sank into his seat. The leather had crimson smudges up and down the seams. Lamont’s wound was the culprit. Once the door was shut, they peeled out of the spot in reverse and drove through the falling snow.

Krane wiped a blanket of sweat from his forehead and glanced to his left at his unsuspecting employee. For the minute, he enjoyed watching the imperfection swell. He rather liked seeing the incompetent blood squirting out of those thick, clumsy fingers. Lamont’s eyes went big and small, big and small, but it didn’t seem to affect his ability to maneuver a vehicle. Perhaps his will to survive was stronger than the lust for violence and misadventure.

Krane pulled out the tracking computer, which was synced to the microchips he’d implanted inside the two runaways. After powering on the screen, an error message flashed, alerting him to the fact that one of the trackers had been removed from the host. But that wasn’t all. The computer was no longer synced in any capacity with Adam. The beeping signal came from the Phoenix.

Something was very wrong. Adam appeared hurt, yes, but not within an hour of death. Why had the signal ceased?

There was only one way it could’ve happened.

The heart. It must’ve stopped beating.
The trackers only functioned so long as there was a heartbeat. He swallowed hard, disturbed by this knowledge.

“Head south, Jeb,” he commanded with a hiccup in his voice, praying that by the time he reached Salvation’s firstborn, his powers would reunite him with this world.

Lamont dabbed his throat. “Not a chance in hell, Doc. You’ve lost it. It’s back…to the asylum. I’m leakin’ like…a siv.”

“Adam is still out there. We h-h-had-had an arrangement, and you will keep it. We head south, or y-y-you-you d-d-do-don’t make it back at all,” Krane stuttered, retrieving a revolver from a pocket in his jacket. Any other day, in any other circumstance, he knew he’d be scared stiff to pull a gun on a federal agent. But these were uncertain, desperate times, and if his visions could be proven correct, he would take pleasure in lording over such lesser flesh.

“Don’t forget, I am in c-con-co-control.” The gun felt flimsy in his grip, but he made sure not to break. “Out here, Saul Hoven does not exist. You were made aware of the pot-p-p-potential risks involved in locating Adam. Just do what you’re told, and I won’t h-h-hurt-hurt you.”

“Is that so, Manny?” Lamont coughed, immediately slamming on the brakes. The minicomputer slid onto the floor as the doctor’s face smacked against the dash. Curses erupted throughout the interior of the Mercedes.

Krane’s brow leaked red. Grunting like an infuriated rodent, he swiftly shoved the revolver between Lamont’s legs, nudging the agent’s groin. For further intimidation, he cocked it. “I hope that we understand each other.”

Lamont eyeballed him in silence.

“I believe that is ch-ch-checkmate.” Krane smirked. “South.”

A wet laugh dripped out. “Funny how Dr. Frankenstein…suddenly grows a pair when he’s got a six-shooter to…do…the talkin’.”

Krane reached into the center console for a handkerchief. Upon locating one, he dabbed his forehead then tied the cloth around Lamont’s throat. “You’re a terrible mess.” Blood seeped into the fabric quickly, but the makeshift tourniquet proved suitable for the task of lapping up the excess so the clumsy agent could focus on driving.

“Just do what we’re told, eh, Doc.?”

“Keep your cesspool mouth shut. That should l-lim-l-limit the amount of blood oozing out of you.”

Lamont nodded, pure hatred sketched across his eyes. He pressed his foot against the accelerator, and the luxury sedan lurched forward.

“At the end of the next block, m-m-make-make a left,” Krane said, rubbing his enflamed ankle, but the pain wouldn’t cease.

Chapter Eight

They reached an area
Arson had never seen before. It was found by trespassing through one of the classrooms: Mr. Harmon’s eleventh grade lit. Period four. Arson had always been a fan of novels and stories, but having an arrogant teacher who lorded over students every chance he got, and often quoted inane things a teenager would never say, sucked the enjoyment right out of reading. In one academic year, the fantasy was nearly killed. But in this reality, it was very much alive.

Odd that this was the room that led to a secret chamber.

“I hated that guy,” Arson remarked, looking back at a classroom full of bored teenagers. Well, mostly. There were the few exceptions sitting in the left corner at the back, a few book lovers who posed as pseudo-intellectuals. They swooned over everything Harmon did, even complimented him on the routine pop quizzes because they claimed such things forced them to study the material. In the center sat a cute girl Arson had tried to dance with in junior high. She turned him down, as did Mandy. Mixers never were his scene anyway. In the front there was a kid drooling on his notebook. The metallic spirals had already begun to leave an imprint on his cheek. Harmon saw but refused to comment on the student’s lack of interest. The unlucky victim ended up flunking the midterm, and Harmon obtained his satisfaction.

“Follow me,” Adam said at length. “We should go this way.”

“Where are we?” Arson wanted to know, once the door closed behind them and they had abandoned Harmon’s lecture.

“Somewhere new to you.”

Arson felt spied on.

“You feel it too?”

A nod.

They glanced around suspiciously, saw nothing. One breath. Two breaths. Something wasn’t right.

Deep blue light outlined the walls, a beautiful glow trimming the black space. The floor was warped, the ceiling sagged, but the walls were a marvel. Arson was entranced by the fluid motion of color. And a whisper incited him to trespass.

“This is incredible,” Arson marveled. “Beautiful.”

“This is just one of the rooms. There are others like it, I imagine.”

“How many?”

Adam’s brows narrowed into the top of his nose. “I don’t know for sure. But one of these rooms is gonna get you outta here.”

“Why couldn’t I find it before?”

“You probably weren’t ready for it. Some gibberish about the hero’s journey, I’m sure. I’m just here to guide you. For someone like me, someone used to escaping inside another person’s head, I don’t know… I can pick up on mental frequencies a little easier than most, figure out where stuff is hiding.”

Adam abandoned the center of the room and approached one of the walls. He touched it gently. The wall remained black, the outline never deviating from its path. “Hmm. The data won’t transfer into me. Maybe it’ll only work on the host.”

“Data?”

“Knowledge. Power. Each one of us, the ones who can do what we can, is born with codes in our minds. Like I said, the powers exist in the blood, but they are made flesh in the mind. The mind is the hub, like a massive control panel. It dictates the rules, what you can and can’t do.”

“Okay, I get that.”

Adam went on, “Our abilities are stored—imprisoned, for lack of a better term—in locations like this one. Mine were locked away inside a carnival. They called it a funhouse, but it was anything but. Each person’s fortress of solitude looks a little different. Our minds run to what’s familiar, and that’s where it sometimes hides things.”

The information made sense.

“You were able to tap into the fire from an early age, Arson. Some abilities are like that. Others have to be sought out. Look, it’s an evolving theory. The basic idea is that some things you can tap into just by existing. Just by living. It’ll come out, maybe accidentally. But what I’ve discovered is that in order to become completely, you gotta find the codes, in here.” Adam pointed to his temple. “Some of the others probably don’t have a clue what they’re capable of.”

“Intense.”

“Stick around. Might be able to teach you a few things.” Adam’s words felt like a cure to his ailing mind, but Arson couldn’t shake the eerie sensation bleeding down his spine, a sensation that warred the cure like a disease.

“Feels like we’re not alone. Is someone here?”

Adam jerked his neck, searched the dimly lit space. “Not that I can tell. But we shouldn’t stay here long. Touch one of the walls. You’ll perceive the code. Let it absorb into you.”

“That’s all I have to do? Touch it?”

“It sounds weird, but trust that I’m not crazy. The power will make contact with your soul body.”

Arson squinted, a little confused.

“That body you’re in, just like the one I’m in, isn’t real. It’s a projected image formed from memories, your subconscious. It’s how you exist in here.”

“Right. Obviously.”

“Cute. Sarcasm coming from a kid who can start fires with his thoughts. I’m not some paranoid scientist. This stuff is real, and you know that better than most. Now, if you’re done questioning me, let’s get this over with.”

A deep, full breath invaded Arson’s chest as he approached one of the walls. He dropped his sweaty hands to his sides and blinked several times. He raised his left palm and pressed it against the chilled wall. An instant was all it took for Arson to register that he’d witnessed a very specific code. Shapes and lines and combinations. Adam pressed his knuckles along Arson’s back, and when he did, it was as if their contact allowed for a translation to occur. Arson understood what the codes meant and knew instantly how to apply them to his blood.

“It should be almost finished now,” Adam exhaled.

“Yeah. I feel it. Incredible!” A whirlwind of knowledge stampeded Arson’s thoughts, and he noticed that every bit of the deep blue glow now traveled from the outlines of the walls into his palm, his wrist. Color sifted through his veins from the source wall. He felt like a tired wanderer who had just discovered an oasis in the center of a desert. Eyes flashing, Arson slid his head slowly from side to side. The transfer had completed, and the color was now stripped from every surface. He blinked then glanced down at his wrists, a deep blue that constantly spun. Flipping his hands, he noticed what looked like a sapphire halo circling them both.

He gasped with a wide stare as symbols and digits vanished behind his dark blue pupils.

“Tastes good, doesn’t it?” Adam said.

When Arson turned to respond no more than a second later, he saw his guide being flung across the room like a paperweight. Narrow trails of mucus pierced the air along with the thin body. A creature had dropped in from the ceiling when he had been absorbing the code. Green slime now oozed from a gaping hole above Arson’s head; it was where the beast had entered. Their intruder had six appendages and used four of them to crawl. Two additional mammoth arms protruded unexpectedly from a hairless abdomen. Scales raced along every squirming limb. Horns jutted out from the creature’s spine, aimed in every direction. Arson also noticed jagged teeth grinding together behind a mouth with no obvious lips. A skeleton tail whooshed back and forth, perhaps tempting the moment to see if now might be the appropriate time to make corpses of their bodies.

The creature thrust at Arson rapidly, slashing his t-shirt.

“That stings,” he said, lifting his hand toward the monster. His enemy was not at all deterred or afraid. Still, Arson grinned, expecting an explosion of fire to tear from his palm. Instead, his body went cold, numb even. As the salivating menace lunged forward for the kill, Arson watched, as if in slow-motion, as a spear of ice punctured his enemy’s violet skin. The creature warred with death for a few seconds but lost.

“Whoa!” Arson gasped, eyeing his hands. How did that happen? For the moment, the fact that some alien entity had just tried to make him a consumable corpse seemed less important. He walked over to the creature, its tail still writhing. Slime dragged and stuck to the floor around the dead life. Adam caught his breath and stood, edging closer toward the curious spectacle.

“So this room was ice?” he commented, putting it all together. “Cool.”

Arson’s heart raced like a locomotive. “You didn’t know?”

“Had a hunch. It’s a rush feeling a new power for the first time, isn’t it?”

A bead of sweat bled across Arson’s forehead as he nodded slowly. His body temperature was still in transition. Normally after heating up, his ligaments and bones often went cold. Here, it was reverse, or something in between.

“That thing’s dead, right?”

Adam kicked its limp tail, seeing the blood pool around the fresh carcass. “Seems dead to me. Though
you
should know more than anybody. You conjured him up.”

“Not on purpose.”

“One too many science fiction movies, I suspect. You’re such a kid.”

“Let’s split before his ex-wife shows up.”

Adam agreed. “Go west, son. Let the devil go east.”