Kaleb Nation - Harken

The door clanged shut behind them and I heard their footsteps disappearing down the hall. But in the midst of those noises was intermingled another set of more shoes, like a mini army coming back in my direction. I licked my lips and sat on the bed again, trying to let my thoughts of Spud go. The rattle of the door proved loud enough to bring me back to the present.

The squeal of boot soles against cement sounded through the room as two guards entered, dressed in black with what appeared to be riot armor. They had rifles held between their hands, rough faces that refused to show me any regard as they approached my cage. Behind them were two others in similarly overdone garb, and finally the most wretched man I’d ever had the misfortune to meet: Wyck, dressed in a business suit, eyes on me immediately.

My fingers became fists the moment I saw him, feeling the pent-up rage breaking the dam inside me. I struggled to keep myself under control, though I’d begun to seethe involuntarily. All I could see was the reflection of my mother’s face in his eyes as he’d slowly let her die at his feet, and my sister’s body as she’d burned alive by his hand.

He regarded me with a depravedly amused expression.

“I didn’t believe it when they told me,” he said, astonished. “And yet here you are. Unless you use very convincing decoys now?”

The first guard had begun to rattle a set of keys against the door, clicking the locks. Wyck studied me up and down with a flick of his eyes as the door swung open.

“Nope, it’s you,” he confirmed with a sniff. “There’s no way to fake that smell of smoke that’s still on your clothes.”

Suddenly, the metal gate had parted and there was a second of a clear path between us. Without even taking time to think, I dove forward, slamming my hand down into his face with all the strength my vengeful rage could muster. I caught his cheek with a massive, echoing slap, amidst wild shouts from the officers who fought to pin me down.

They got me wrestled to the ground, hardly able to breathe from the weight of all the officers piled on top of me. It took the entire group, one for each of my limbs, just to keep me down as I struggled, until they’d knocked me hard enough that I wasn’t screaming and fighting anymore. It took all of my remaining strength to keep my claws hidden. Not yet.

They lifted me from the ground at once, holding my arms at my sides and roughly turning me back around. Wyck was there, wiping his mouth that dribbled a satisfying stream of blood. He spat it out onto the ground, twisting his mouth up to realign his jaw.

“My God,” he told me. “You are quick , Mr. Asher.”

Then, in front of all the officers, he drew his fist back like a backwards-swinging battering ram, and crashed it forward into the side of my face.

WHITE.

BLACK.

WHITE.

No one really sees stars when they’re hit. They see flashes and pops and explosions of color, hear the crack of their own bone in their ears and feel the pounding of their heart as it speeds to compensate. His ring served as a metal cap that hit right against my skin. It was like my head was encased in a drum, and he beat that drum with a mallet.

I felt blood running from my nose but I couldn’t wipe it, my hands bound and held down by the guards. My eyes were fixed in a wide stare and I felt dizzy, sick, focusing on the wall for a second only for it to go blurry. I would have fallen to the side if they hadn’t held me so tightly.

“How terrible!” I heard Wyck saying with mock sympathy. “Please, officers, keep this disturbed boy from beating himself against the walls.”

We started down the hall with me hanging in the center like a mannequin. I heard some gasps from the police, hushed telephone conversations as I was dragged down steps, across another hall, and out the door. I tasted the blood as it ran into my lips, like salt water.

My vision still swam in front of me so I was not prepared for an entirely new set of lights and flashes and noises. The media was waiting for me outside again, a loud gasp from the gathered crowd at first but even more flash bulbs following. Wyck casually moved so that everyone could get a shot of me: Michael Asher. Bleeding. Dizzy. Blinded. The boy they said killed his own family, unable to walk on his own two feet.

I was lifted through the back door of a waiting vehicle, hearing it clang shut like the sealing of a safe behind me. When the harsh sunlight was covered again, I was finally able to open my eyes weakly. We were inside an armored truck much like the type that carried funds back and forth from banks. Instead of shelves, there were long benches on each wall, the metal so thick that even the calls of the crowd were drowned out.

Wyck sat across from me with a guard on each of his sides. He straightened his suit.

“Let’s go,” he told the driver, tapping the window impatiently. “They got their pictures.”

I heard the heavy engine roar to a start, and we were off.

I was too weak to sit up so I bounced between the unmoving shoulders of the two guards beside me. No one looked at me when I forced myself to glance around, their eyes fixed straight ahead dutifully. Where had Wyck found officers so jaded that they were willing to follow his orders as he beat a teenager? Or maybe they’d been warned about my crafty ways, that even one misstep might give me a chance to escape and then kill their families too.

It made everything worse when I thought about it. The Guardians didn’t need henchmen. When everyone followed orders from someone higher, and those people followed orders from someone higher than them, eventually the pyramid came to a peak of command. When Guardians stood at the top, the police might as well be their personal army.

Every bump in the road made me bounce and feel sicker. The drive continued longer than I’d expected, and partway through Wyck whispered something in a radio to the driver. We took a sharp turn and started down another way. We could have been anywhere for all I knew, heading deeper in to a maze from which I knew there would be little chance of escape.

The longer we rode, the more edgy the four guards became. Each was nearly twice my mass. It didn’t make sense for them to be so afraid and yet I didn’t need a Glimpse to see the anxiety lurking in their eyes.

Soon, the truck slowed and I heard a massive grating outside. Then we pulled ahead a few more feet, the windows darkening as we entered a building. The guards glanced at each other but still said nothing.

The back door opened. The guards beside me seized my arm again, pulling me down the steps and onto the ground. Lights from our single police car escort flashed against the walls.

We had parked inside what appeared to be a giant airplane hangar. I wasn’t sure at first until I looked over my shoulder and saw far off in the corner was a small, Gulfstream G650 executive plane. That was how large the space was: a small jet could sit tucked away in one corner and go unnoticed for a few seconds. The roof towered above my head and the walls were made of long metal sheets, everything lit by skylights. There were five silver sedans parked neatly against the wall, all bearing the Maserati trident on their fronts. Two other people were standing behind racks, shuffling around with cables and a row of screens, paying no attention to us. Other things were scattered about under tarps and behind tables but I was pushed ahead before I could see them.

Wyck got out of the van last, approaching the guards and me after a quick check of his wristwatch. He took me by the arm.

“Stand over here,” he ordered, as the men let go of me uncertainly. I could see they were confused about what was going on. I was shoved from Wyck’s hold into the grasp of the driver, as Wyck tossed his coat into the man’s other arm.