EXALTED (An Exalted Novel) (27 page)

Someone comes in before I flush. Oddly,
a pair of men’s shoes appear at the bottom of my stall door. Suddenly, I panic.
Am I in the men’s restroom?
“Sorry, I’ll be just a second. I guess I went in the wrong door.” I quickly flush and straighten my too tight dress back into place. It’s even tighter now because of all the food I inhaled.

“Open the door, trainee.”

“One second.”
What is this Exalted’s problem? It was an honest mistake.

I peak through the crack
of the stall door and see one of Dr. Frederick’s bodyguards. I start to sweat. I wipe it away with some toilet paper so they won’t notice my reaction.
Are they on to me?
I carefully unlatch the door’s sliding lock. The door swings open by itself. It creaks just a little.

“Step out.” The bodyguard commands.

I follow orders and step out of the stall and into the open area of the women’s restroom. It
is
the women’s restroom. There are no urinals, only stalls. I’m about to say as much, when I notice Dr. Fredericks and a second bodyguard.
Oh, no. No!

My Exalted rigidity instantly returns to me. I give a slight bow to my leader. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize the restrooms were off limits.”
Did I just say that? I have no idea what’s going on here.

Dr. Fredericks clasps his hands behind his scrawny back and proceeds to circle me, looking me over from head to toe. I feel like I’m under one of his microscopes. He’s studying me inside and out. He stops, mere inches from my face, when he gets back in front of me. He scrutinizes my face as he asks me, “How long have you been off the Pump?”

I was not expecting that.
Trying not to show any physical reaction to his question, I stand firm. I keep my face blank. “I’m sorry sir, but I’m not sure what you’re referring to. I take the Pump everyday at breakfast like everyone else,” I say with confidence.

How does he know?

“I know you’re lying,” he says as he leans closer to my face. His breath smells like onions. I try not to recoil. “You should be punished for it, but you seem to be very skilled and could prove quite useful to me.” Dr. Fredericks turns to the bodyguard that forced me out of the bathroom stall. ”Hand me my case, Geer,” he orders his servant.

The large man pulls out a slim black case from an interior pocket of his tuxedo. He hands it to Dr. Fredericks, who turns to face me once again. “Now my dear, I’m going to make sure you’re back in running order for your final Trial. Unfortunately, your evening is going to end now. I’m so
very sorry about that,” he hisses as he unlocks the small case. His demeanor unnerves me, and I’m sweating again because of it.

Dr. Fredericks removes a syringe that
is filled with purple liquid. He also pulls out another one that is filled with something clear. He smiles as he hands the case back to his bodyguard. As I look at the two syringes, something inside me dies.
It’s the Pump. He’s going to inject me with the Pump. But what’s that other one? Is it the sedative?
I have no idea. I’m scared.

I back up, away from him, away from the bodyguards, and away from that horrendous drug. There’s no point in hiding anything now—he already knows—and what can I do? I can’t run. I’ll never make it to the other side of the Republic’s walls. I can’t fight. I would never win against these two Exalted bodyguards. I want to cry. I want to curl into a ball on the tile floor and cry. Everything is ruined now.

I back up until my back hits the cold, concrete wall. I lean my head back against it and look up at the speckled gray ceiling while I accept my fate. It’s the last thing I see after the needles sting my neck and I slump to the unforgiving floor.

It’s so hot. My throat fe
els like I’ve been drinking sand from the floor of the Defender’s Course. My head is pounding. I moan and roll over, knocking my head against something hard and gravelly.

I force my eyelids open, but the sun
tears at my corneas.
Where am I?

I scramble up into a crouch, feeling my body for my knives and then for injuries. Everything is intact and present. I take in my surroundings. My brain turns on and begins to work like a machine, pumping information in and processing an immediate response.

Buildings tower over me, most of them with massive holes in them. Rubble, abandoned vehicles, and remnants of life long ago litter the cracked, weed infested streets. This is definitely not the Republic. I’m in the Third Trial.

I hustle over the street curb that I must have hit my head against. A pile of cinder blocks lay haphazardly heaped next to the crumbling building. I duck behind them for cover. After sliding to the ground, I check my body for
any supplies that I may have been left here with. There are knives on my belt, a dagger in my boot, more daggers in a pouch on my belt, a flint in my pocket, and a black watch on my wrist. I’m wearing black pants with a belt, a black t-shirt, black boots, and black socks. I realize that there are no pills hidden in my clothing. They forgot to leave me with the Pump.

I don’t dwell on
the Pump long, the watch draws my attention away. It’s bulky on my small wrists and needs to be tightened, so I take it off. As I study it, it tells me that the time is 7:16 AM. I flip it over to discover a small bulge. I unfasten the waterproof pouch and find a pre-war, topographic map of the Republic and the surrounding areas. After placing it back inside the tiny pouch on the watch, I look around for a backpack that I may have missed. I don’t see anything that isn’t in a current state of deterioration.
That’s unfortunate.

Judging by my surroundings, I’m in a city. This is good. There must be supplies here. That’s my plan
: get supplies first; then make my way back to the Republic as quickly as possible. I am not sure how many days out I am, but once I find a good landmark, I should be able to tell from the map.

The clock is ticking.
Go!

I hang close to the deteriorating buildings, dragging my shoulder along their exterior walls w
hile keeping my eyes and ears alert for any threats. The abandoned city is silent, except for the occasional breeze that blows debris along the cracked pavement and against the rusting vehicles that invade the sidewalks and barricade most of the streets. I have to climb over trucks and cars as I search for a building that might contain supplies.

Most of the vehicles have been picked over long ago. Doors hang open and windows are smashed. I grab a crowbar
from the bed of a pickup truck. The crowbar could be a tool—or a handy weapon. It burns my hand and I nearly drop it. The hot sun has already heated the metal, and even though I slide the crowbar through my belt, it burns my back through my thin shirt.

Before I leave the truck, I climb in the flat bed and rummage through a metal chest that sits up against the back window. It’s filled with tools and sports equipment. I pocket a hammer, a screwdriver, and bag of nails. They could come in handy later.

It’s hard to tell what the buildings used to hold within their walls. Most of them are empty of goods, some of them look like people inhabited them at one time, and others appear to have imploded. After about two hours of searching, I finally find an intact structure with rotten, bug-eaten clothes scattered on the floors. I can see shelves lining the back wall. Most are empty from what I can tell, but it’s worth a look.

I climb through the large window, where the glass has long since blown away. I pick through some of the garments that still hang from racks. Not one thing here is salvageable, so I head toward the rows of shelves. A bottle of water has rolled under one of the bottom shelves. I snatch it up and take a huge swallow. It’s stale, but my dry mouth doesn’t care. I keep searching for anything that will help me.

With my newly acquired tools and half empty water bottle, I hunt for a bag or satchel to carry them in. I don’t find anything in the storefront, but there are doors at the back of the store that may lead to more. I peek through the foggy, plastic windows of two swinging doors. I can’t see much from here so I push on the doors. They stand firm, blocking me from whatever is beyond them. It seems like a good time to try out my new crowbar. It splits the doors open in seconds.

I clutch the bar like a weapon as I creep through what looks to be a storage room. Untouched boxes line huge shelving units. I slip the crowbar back into my belt and tear through box after box, until I find what I’m looking for. I discover a box full of backpacks that are still wrapped in plastic. They have been persevered after all these years. I find several different colors before settling on black. It’s perfect! I load my tools and water bottle into the bag. I don’t find anything useful down the rest of the aisles. At least not useful enough to weigh my pack down more.

At the back of the storage room is another set of doors, but these doors don’t have any windows. There is a small sign above the doorway that reads “Employees Only,” and a horrible stench seeps out of the cracks. Instinctively, I know that death is beyond these doors. I’m sure of it, and I’m sure of myself as I pull out two daggers and kick the doors wide open.

My stomach lurches as my nostrils fill with the smell of rotting flesh. I instantly prepare myself for an attack, but nothing happens. There is only death in this room.

The three bloated corpses that lay around the small room have not been dead long—a week at most. They have been shot in various places on their bodies. Old blood pools around a young woman’s head. Her blonde hair is matted and covered with the red substance. It appears that she may have been raped before being executed. She is missing her pants and her shirt has been ripped. Several buttons are scattered in the blood on the floor.

The other two bodies are a teenage boy and another male about the same age as the woman. He’s probably in his early twenties.
It appears they were trying to protect her.

I hold my breath as I search this side of the room for items they may have left behind, like backpacks or weapons or food. Regretfully, this area has been picked clean. I move onto the other side of the room. I rummage through the small kitchen-like area for anything salvageable, while also listening for movement of possible marauders. I work quickly and efficiently. I find four carrots, three mushrooms, and one bottle of water secured under some pots in a cabinet. The three victims must have been staying here for a while and used this as their hiding place for food. They were smart, but not strong.

I load my bounty into my pack, re-arm myself, and head for the door all while still holding my breath. After shoving the door open, I rush out of the room, gasping for air. Two dirty, marauder men are waiting for me.

These are the first marauders I’ve seen since commencing the Third Trial. They grin at me with yellow teeth. Boils cover parts of their faces as well as the exposed skin on their arms. It appears that a life outside of the Republic is a difficult one.

“Well, hello there, missy. I see you found our handy work.” The taller man with the baldhead nods toward the door. A hungry look passes over his face as he takes in my shape. “Aren’t you a pretty one?” he says to me with a cocky smirk. “Even prettier than the whore we left in that room. Wouldn’t mind a new girlfriend. What’d you say, Mud?”

His friend laughs. “Oh, yes,” the other man says as he nods his head.

They both take several steps toward me. The baldheaded man’s right hand grips on the handgun at his hip as he inches toward me. His eyes are crazed as they continue to rove over my body.

I need to get away from here.
My only option is to fight. He’s almost on top of me. My training kicks in. I flick a dagger right into the bald man’s jugular. He drops with a look of shock plastered over his disfigured face. Blood pours out of the wound and a death gurgle escapes his throat.

The other, much younger man turns and runs from the warehouse. I start after him, but realize that retrieving my weapon and continuing on my journey is more important than hunting down one marauder. Time is of the essence. But I can’t move on, there’s something nagging me. I have to follow rule number one. It’s not an option to disobey. I have to follow the rules.
Instead of wasting one of my precious daggers, I heft the hammer I retrieved from the truck. It hits the marauder square in the back of his head. He falls to the ground in mid stride.

I clean my blade on the taller man’s pants and then search his body. I momentarily pause, realizing this man is my first real kill. Strangely, it has no impact on me. I know it should, but I just feel . . . nothing. His person doesn’t have anything useful on it, except the handgun. Since Exalted don’t believe in using them, I remove it from its holster and shove it in one of the warehouse’s boxes on my way out to the street.

Before I step out of the protection of the store front, I pull out my map from the pouch that sits on my inner wrist. I scan it for cities that resemble the one I am currently in to no avail. There are dozens that look like this one. I need to find a good landmark to help me determine where I may be. I decide to go west, with the sun.

I don’t get very far—maybe a mile or two—before I hit water. It’s murky, brown lake water. Surprisingly, the bridge that connects the two banks is still standing. It’s the largest bridge I’ve ever seen. Well, it’s the only bridge I’ve ever seen. It’s
enormous.