The Moon Dwellers (56 page)

It’s
a long run, and
my initial burst of speed wanes
, forcing me to drop into well-measured
, paced strides.
Tristan catches up
halfway to the pyramids, pulling alongside me
, galloping along in a strange limp-run
, his breathing heavy, but not as heavy
as mine.
To his credit, he does
n’t try to stop me, to reason with me,
like so many other guys would do.
He seems to understand that I have to do what I’m
about to do.

Whatever that i
s.

“What’s the plan?” he says as we ru
n together.

Plan?
Huh?
The word sounds
as meaningless to me as a phrase uttered in an ancien
t language by someone who forms
words by clicking their tongue against the roof of their m
outh.
“I…uh…well…” I stammer.
Finally, I say
, “Get my d
ad?”
What a plan!
I even say it like a question, as if I’m not sure that’s why we’
re sprinting across a barren prison camp.
Good one, Adele
.

Tristan deserves
a medal for patience.
“So go and k
ick some butt then?”
He
tries to grin, but the pain of running with his injuries turns it into a grimace
.

“Exactly.”
His assured
tone gi
ve
s me strength, and I feel like we have
a plan, even thou
gh we do
n’t.
“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Never felt better,” he says.

“Liar.”

The pyramids loom closer.
They are a lot bigger now that we a
re close to them, rising hundreds
of feet into the air.
I veer
right, heading for the outer edge of the first one in the
line of three.
Tristan follows
, keeping pace and sticking
close to my side.
As we pass the corner, my eyes widen
at the sight before me.

Dozen
s of other giant
, gray
pyramids dot
the landscape, rising majestically above us.

The commotion we heard from a distance i
s
getting louder and soon we can
make ou
t individuals yells.
It sounds
like a battle.

I continue
to steer us in the direction
of the sound, but we still ca
n’t see anyth
ing except the pyramids, which a
re staggered
in such a way that they block the
view in every direction once
you a
re in their midst.

“We’re close,” Tristan says
.
“Get ready.”

Ready for what?
I have no idea, but I nod
anyway.
We pas
s
a final pyrami
d and abruptly our vision opens
to a wide open rock slab plane
.
A half-constructed pyramid stan
d
s
a ways off.
In front of the pyramid: chaos—
the source of the noise.

A mob of prisoners are fighting the guards, who a
re using long whips
and T
asers to hold them off.
None of them have guns.
Clearly the intention i
s to hurt, not to kill.

But the guards aren’t doing so well.
We pull to a stop, and as we watch, one of the guards i
s bashed over the head by a shirtless guy wielding a
rock.
A prisoner.
His body i
s covered in scars, some dark and ancient, and others fresh
—some even ooze
bright red blood.

There a
re hundr
eds of prisoners, all of whom a
re in a similar
condition.
None of the men wear shirts and they all have
various injuries, likely caused by the sting of th
e guards’ whips.
The women wear
ratty tank tops
and sport
simil
ar welts and gashes.
But they’ve
had enough.

The revolt i
s ultraviolent
and for a few minutes we watch in awe as the prisoners start
to gain an advan
tage.
Although the
inmate
s a
re
taking a beating, the guards a
re dropping fast
, being pelted with stones or bludgeoned by bare fists
, a result o
f the overwhelming force that i
s gathered to defy them.

The camp name suddenly mak
e
s
sense.
The Stones: the massive stone blocks used t
o construct the pyramids—they we
re likely constructed off the backs of the prisoners, a
pointless exercise that appears
to have no purpose other than to inflict pain.
T
he Blood: the prisoners provide
that when abused by the guards.

Now the guards’ blood i
s mixed with the prisoners.

Our timi
ng i
s remarkable.
That we
arrive during such an event i
s incredible
,
to say the least.

“Do you see him?” Tristan asks
.

“Who?” I say
, watching the brutality with morbid curiosity.

“I don’t know, your dad maybe?”

Duh.
The whole purpose of our being
her
e.
I scan
the mob, hoping to see his dark mop of hair and neatly trimmed mustac
he amongst the prisoners.
I do
n’t think about
what it might mean if he’s not
amongst the fighters.

I think my eyes swe
ep
past him three or four times before I recognize
him.
Subconsciously
,
I know it is him, because my gaze keeps
returning
to one spot, but my mind fails to believe
it’s him
.
His black hair i
s long and disheveled, down to
his shoulders.
His mustache i
s accompanied by a thick, black beard, covering the better half of his face.
His uncovered body, always strong from
his work in the mines, glistens with sweat and blood and is as hard as the stones he i
s forced to work with.

But there is
no mistaking his eyes.
Emerald green and piercing, like mine.
Exactly l
ike mine.
Looking into them has
always been like looking into a mirror for me.

When he happens to turn
toward
me, searchin
g for a guard to fight, he spots me and our eyes lock.
I don’t know if he thinks I am
a mirage, a misfire of one of the thousands of synapse
s in his brain, but he just stan
d
s
there stari
ng at me.
His shoulders slump
as
if even seeing a mirage of me i
s too painful for him to bear.

I wave
at him.

His head perks up and his head cocks
to the side.
I gu
ess maybe he doesn’t think a mirage can
wave.
Whatever the case, he ta
k
es
of
f running to me.
I charge
toward
him, wild
with
excitement.
My legs feel as light as air.
I am
giddy, gleefully chi
ldlike.
A few of the guards see
him break away and r
ace
after him, one of them snapping a whip at his heels.

Ignoring the crack
le of the whip, my dad thunders
toward
me with reckless abandon.
The gap between us disappears
.
Forty feet.
Thirty.
Twenty.

Crack!
The guard sli
ng
s
the whip with practiced prec
ision and this time it connect
s
, wrapping around my father’s legs
and tripping him up.
He manages
to brace hi
s fall with his arms and skids
to a stop ten feet from me, his arms immediately sheening with fresh blood from new scrapes.

We go
for the guards.
One for me; one for Tristan.

I cho
o
se the one with the whip.
I’m not sure where
this sudden need for revenge co
me
s from, but I ca
n’t seem to control it.
First Rivet, because of Cole.
Now the whip-carrying guard, because of my father.

The guard pulls the strap back and snaps it at me.
I see it coming, ducking so low I am
forced into a roll, clunky and
painful on the stone.
I emerge
from the roll on my feet and still moving at full force
.
I’m not sure a train could stop
me
at this point.
It is like I’m
possessed by a demon, only observing my crazed self from afar.

When the guard sees
the look
on my face, his own face flashes
fear, cheeks turning white and mouth contorting.
I le
a
d with an elbow, spearing him in the mouth with it and likely jarring a few teeth loose.
Mai
ntaining my momentum, I follow th
rough with a shoulder to his sternum, flattening him on
to
his back and trampling overtop his chest.

I screech to a stop and look back.
Tristan has
the other guard a
t sword point, but then switches
the bl
ade to his left hand and punches
the guy hard in
the head twice.
His head lolls to the side like he’
s unconscious.

The guard I battered i
s groan
ing and writhing in pain.
I don’t think he’
s going to be a thr
eat anytime soon, so I leave him and run to my dad, who i
s pulling himself to his feet.
De
spite his aches and pains, he i
s smiling, his arms outstretched.

Al
though it isn’t exactly as I planned in my mind, I jump on him, wrap
my arms and legs around him, hu
gging him harder than I ever have
before
, not caring that he i
s covered in a mixture of dirt and blood
.
“Dad…oh,
D
ad,”
I murmur
into his chest
.

“My precious daughter,” he says
, rubbing my back.

I hear Tristan say,
“Not trying to spoil the reunion here, but we’ve got
to go.”
Reluctantly, I release my dad and turn
to Tristan, who i
s watchi
ng us with one
black
eye; the other i
s trained on the continuing battle between
the guards and prisoners.
I see what he i
s worried
about.
A few of the guards have
broken awa
y from the fray and a
re gesturing at us wildly.

“C’mon,” I say
, grabbing my dad’s hand and pulling him
toward
the closest pyramid.
“I’ll take you to Elsey.”

“El
’s here?” my dad says
, following me.

“Yeah, I figured I’d pick her up on the way over.
You know, right after we broke out of prison.”

“What!?”

“It’s a long story.”