Kafka (1)
Kafka stood at the window wall of his 25th floor Ritz-Carlton suite, hands clasped behind his back, staring out onto the Pacific Ocean with the sun sinking into the water and setting it ablaze.
Eli sat alone on a plush ivory-colored couch watching his new mentor gaze down on the entire world. He’d never set foot in a suite so luxurious and expansive. Cias and he had executive suites of their own a few floors below. More members of the Lorne family were expected to arrive in the coming days. Several cells of the Lorne Royal Guard were already here, out of sight, and could always be ready and assembled in a moment’s notice. He’d seen these elite teams in action, and they were impressive, efficient killing machines. When Eli was released from the asylum, he thought he would be trained as one of them, but now it seemed he was being groomed for something more.
Cias entered from another room in the suite.
“The car is reserved and will arrive precisely at 11 p.m.,” he said.
“Very good,” Kafka said, not turning his attention from the majestic view. After a pause, he spoke again. “So this is how the kings of this fine land live. I’m not impressed.”
Chapter 1: Unwelcome Home
I thumbed the tenth and final bullet into the clip, clicked it in, and jerked back the slide, chambering that tenth and final bullet. Seated on the floor, I leaned against Richard’s recliner, knees up, with Nicholae’s manifested pistol aimed at the far wall.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Click.
All ten bullets hung suspended in space two inches from the wall, hovering over the five clips of fallen bullets that came before them.
The light filtering in through the windows faded, shrouding the living room in ghostly shadows. I split my concentration and flipped the light switch with a thought while continuing to hold the ten fired bullets in midair. They almost fell, but I held them up by a strand.
In the light, the room looked as clean and situated as it had ever been, as livable as the day we moved in, which had been less than nine months ago. Maybe it was the house that was cursed and not me. It had already claimed one life that I knew of before we’d moved in. Maybe if we’d stayed in Lake Arrowhead, none of this would have happened. We’d still all be together, living normal lives, blissfully unaware of what lurked a few steps and a whole world away. Maybe Jeremy would still be alive. Maybe Richard. Mr. Gordon cleaned up all the blood, cleaned up the room and all evidence of the carnage we’d found upon our return home, but I could still see it.
As with Jeremy’s death, there are things you can’t un-see, regardless of how desperately you want to.
I discovered the barrier to go home had disappeared after spending a week at the new camp. The few Lornes left were busy rebuilding and the rest of us got busy training. I knew I’d see Kafka again, face him man-to-man; and I would be the one to kill him. I needed to make sure I was ready, truly ready this time. On the first night of meeting Nicholae, when I had ventured into his interrogation room, he’d asked me if I was ready. I’d said I was, and I believed it to be the truth, but I could see now how unprepared I had been. I vowed not to be unprepared again.
Desiree went home to check in. I didn’t go with her, but promised to stay close by. Accompanied by Mr. Gordon and Nicholae, we crossed Santa Clara, headed to my house. The stench poured out as soon as I opened the front door, causing me to drop the key I’d retrieved from a fake rock in the courtyard. Mr. Gordon and Nicholae went in ahead of me, both of whom instructed me to remain outside. I immediately threw up in the mulch, peppering nearby flowers and bushes. Once my stomach was empty, fearing the worst, I stumbled inside. The air was thick with rot and I pushed down more gagging. Entering the living room, I saw the source of the smell—Richard, seated and slumped in his recliner, his throat slit. Brown splatter painted the chair, carpet, coffee table, and nearby lamp shade. His skin was gray and his facial features sunken. His fingers were crooked like talons, digging into the armrests of the chair.
Mr. Gordon appeared from the hallway of the bedroom wing and Nicholae stepped in through the back sliding door, both stopping cold at seeing me staring at my stepfather’s corpse. The mess was cleaned in no time and the stench in that room dissipated only moments after, but there was another wretched smell coming from elsewhere in the house. My mother’s body was not found. But I found Frolics lying on his side under the kitchen table, his chest still rising with slow, shallow breaths. The smell came from the laundry room, which had become his bathroom for the past week. The toilet seat was up in the guest bathroom, with the water in the bowl nearly gone. I cried and crawled under the table to lay with him while Nicholae and Mr. Gordon finished working their magic.
I released the bullets, allowing them to fall to the floor and join the others. I glanced down at all the casings surrounding me. If Kafka wasn’t the one in my house, whoever had been was here on his orders. I only saw Kafka; no one else even entered my field of vision. I saw him in the far wall where so many bullets had been aimed.
“It’s okay, boy,” I called out to Frolics as I placed the pistol down on the coffee table. “I’m done.”
He had disappeared after the first shot, but I was too self-absorbed to care.
“I’m sorry.” I remained seated and quiet until Frolics finally moped out of the hallway and cautiously made his way over to me. “What am I going to do with you?” I asked, stroking his long, oily fur. “There isn’t much left here for us, is there?”
He glanced up, almost looking like he was nodding in agreement, and then lay his head on my knee. I thought of the other Frolics, the stuffed animal cocker spaniel I’d left with Darius’s little sister, Amber.
A phone rang in the kitchen and it took me a moment to realize it was the replacement cell phone Mr. Gordon had given me, with a ringtone I wasn’t yet familiar with. Mr. Gordon had also given Desiree a new phone after losing hers in the Asymmetric plane. Tempted to let it go to voice mail, I ran over, swiped the screen, and put it to my ear.
“I really wanted to hear your voice,” Desiree said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, yourself,” she answered. “It feels so good to be home, but I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can say. All I can do is just be with my mom and sis.”
“Not exactly easy to explain what we’ve been through, is it?”
“It’s so hard.” She was quiet for a moment, but I could hear her breathing into the microphone. “How are your folks? Did you tell them about Jeremy yet?”
“No, they’re not here,” I said, wanting to shield her from the horror I’d witnessed upon my arrival.
“Oh? What about Nicholae and Mr. Gordon?”
“Gone.” I had told them I’d wanted some time alone. Whoever had come here didn’t stick around waiting for me. They wouldn’t come back. I’d be safe to spend one night alone in my own house. I could pretend everyone was out for the evening and I’d returned somehow to ordinary life. I couldn’t see shame in a little make-believe. And if all else failed, I had my newly acquired skills and gun. Reluctantly, Nicholae and Mr. Gordon had agreed to allow me to stay home alone. Nicholae would begin his exploration of this plane and Mr. Gordon would return home as well, a mere mile away, far enough to give me some much needed privacy, yet close enough to come to my aid if required. I needed some time alone, which also meant separation from Desiree.
“Do you want me to come over?” she asked.
“No. I’m fine waiting for them alone, and besides, you need to spend some time with your family, especially if you plan on leaving them again.”
“I told you, we’re in this together.”
“Then spend some time with your family,” I said sternly. “They deserve it, and so do you.”
I hung up with her a few minutes later and walked back into the living room. Frolics remained where I’d left him, by the recliner, head up, but tail still. I cleaned up the cast-out casings and fired bullets, and dumped them into the trash. I had half a box of ammunition left, compliments of Nicholae, which were more than enough to get me through one day alone. When I could learn to manifest them directly into my pistol, I’d never have to reload again—which, I won’t lie, would be pretty sweet.
I released the empty clip and reloaded it once again. I chambered a bullet, clicked on the safety, and nestled it back into my shoulder holster. I’d switched from a hip to shoulder holster in returning home to keep myself out of trouble—or at least to try.
I ventured down the hallway and stopped a moment at Jeremy’s door. His laptop lay on his bed with the screen still up, black now, but it still gave the impression he would be returning to finish whatever it was he had been working on.
“Why didn’t you just come home with Richard, you stupid…” my words trailed off suddenly remembering what had happened here. Jeremy would most likely be dead either way. Maybe he knew that, too, and neglected to share it with the rest of us. Jeremy had been dreadfully depressed in the days leading up to his death, like he could see his future. That wasn’t the way I wanted to remember him.
I walked into the still room and lowered the screen of the laptop. As I turned to leave, I noticed Desiree’s gargoyle on the desk. The gargoyle sketch was taped to a green notebook—TJ’s journal, which I had left on Jeremy’s bed before seeking out the asylum. I collected the journal and left.
The house creaked to remind me of how quiet it was. I flipped on the light to my room and tried to recall if everything was as I’d left it. My bed was half made and clothes lay in an unkempt heap by my laundry basket (the ones worn but not yet dirty). Everything seemed right.
I unbuckled my shoulder holster and draped it over the computer chair. I caught my reflection in the mirrored closet doors and couldn’t believe who was gazing back at me. It was me, but I hardly recognized myself anymore. I looked thin and tired, haunted and withdrawn. Nero, my slain daediem, was in there somewhere, trapped behind my eyes, his only windows to the outside world. I was acutely aware of his presence even though I could no longer hear him. He was my slave now and I found a certain satisfaction and even joy in the thought.
My room felt so empty without TJ. I missed his messages, his company, his voice. All I had left was his journal. He was already dead when I had met him, but it was Kafka who really killed him. Another name added to the list of reasons why I didn’t just need Kafka dead, but I needed to kill him myself.
Sitting on my bed, leaning back against the wall, I reread through TJ’s tragic love story and cried a little for him...a little for Jeremy...a little for Richard...a little for Mom...
Frolics quietly padded into the room. The door slowly closed behind him, and I just sat on my bed with the open journal in my lap and cried.
* * * * *
I didn’t want the night to end. I tried my best to savor every waking minute, but fell asleep shortly after Frolics came in. And then awoke after what felt like the blink of an eye later to sunlight blazing behind the curtains. I found myself curled up in a ball with my arm wrapped around the notebook like a security blanket. Frolics was curled up at the foot of the bed, eyeing me curiously. I’d have never thought I’d scold myself for sleeping soundly. But I did. I wasn’t ready to face today yet, face the start of the next battle.
I called Mr. Gordon and told him I was going to school this morning. He didn’t seem surprised or try to talk me out of it.
“Just be careful, Oliver,” was all he said.
I strolled into chemistry a few minutes early. My regular seat was still available and the seat beside me remained vacant—Desiree’s seat—as the rest of the students filed into class. I left the house without calling her, needing a few more hours to myself. Desiree was coming with me into battle. I wanted to say goodbye to my former life in my own private way. Not too long ago I yearned for nothing more than to be extraordinary; now I just wanted a few hours of normalcy, and there was nothing more normal than going to school.
Leslie walked into class not even noticing me and I didn’t make a point to get her attention. While she placed her backpack on the floor beside her desk, she happened to glance back, and met my eyes with disbelief. Her color drained as if she was looking at a corpse. Further noticing the empty desk beside me, she exchanged her seat for Desiree’s.
“What happened to you? Where have you been? How’s Jeremy? How’re you?” she fired off like an automatic pistol.
I squirmed in my seat, partially from all the questions and partially to adjust my shoulder holster slightly, becoming increasingly aware that I had a gun at school. I was upset with my situation, but was not on the brink of insanity. I wasn’t going to snap and shoot up the school, but I needed to be prepared for anything, which reminded me that this isn’t normal.
“I’m fine. Jeremy’s fine—”
“Well, where is he?” she insisted, which sounded more out of hurt than concern. “He’s been gone a week and he hasn’t returned my calls or answered my texts. Did he lose his phone? Is he out of the country? It used to ring for a while and now it goes straight to voice mail.”
I assumed Jeremy left his cell phone at home when he joined us on our trek to Doria and the battery was now dead—dead…
“He’s…” I didn’t know what to say. I looked into her beautiful, expectant eyes and contemplated telling her the story I’d previously concocted about Jeremy’s disappearance or just telling her the truth—well, at least a partial truth. I couldn’t tell her he’d been murdered in the higher plane of Doria (which was now a crippled wasteland fused together with the fallen plane above), but I could tell her he was dead. I finally realized there was no way to tell her that he’d simply left (like I’d originally planned) without him looking like a jerk, and I didn’t want her to forever remember him that way. So with a heavy heart and in a low voice, I said, “He’s dead.”
Her expression was back to disbelief or confusion.
“He’s…”
I nodded.
“I don’t understand. He was fine a week ago.”
I was about to say more when Mr. Clayton asked for all student attention up front.
“I’ll explain tomorrow,” I whispered.
“No, you’ll explain right after class,” she demanded, beginning to cry.
“Mr. Grain?” Mr. Clayton said.
I looked forward at being called out in front of the whole class.
“You’ve been gone an awfully long time. Do you have a note from the office?”
I shook my head.
“Would you come up here please?”
When I stood up from my desk, Leslie did the same with tears rolling down her cheeks, sniffling loudly like she was having a sudden allergy attack. She wouldn’t look me in the eyes before bolting out of class without a coherent word.
“Class, please get started on pages 117–121 in your books,” Mr. Clayton said as he ushered me into his connecting office/storage room.
“Did you come back just to make the girls in my class cry?” he asked, squinting at me as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. His face was contorted in a disapproving sneer, and he didn’t appear to be joking.
“No, sir,” I responded.
“Miss Behring has been gone for a while, too, and I know you two are close. Do you know where she has been?”
I shook my head.
“Well, you’ve missed too much class,” he said, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms. “To get more than an incomplete, you’ll have to make up time this summer.”
“I understand. That’s not a problem.” I knew it wouldn’t be a problem because I wouldn’t be back.
“Okay…well…you need to get all this absenteeism worked out with administration. You can do that now.”
“Can’t I just sit through class?” I asked. “I’ll get it all sorted out later today, but for now I just want to stay here…and learn.”
Mr. Clayton thought about it for a moment and his demeanor softened.
“Sure, you’re welcome to stay, but please bring me a note tomorrow. Also, talk with me after class and we’ll arrange some times to help you get caught up.”
I thanked him for his help and returned to my seat. Leslie hadn’t returned, and I tried not to think about her sobbing in the bathroom over my dead brother. After last night, I was all cried out.
My day of normalcy did not include continuing my conversation with Leslie about Jeremy’s death. Sure, she deserved some answers, but she’d never get real closure anyway. There would be no funeral and she wouldn’t be able to visit his tombstone. No matter what I told her, I’d never be able to fully satisfy her yearning for answers, for the truth, which constituted acceptable closure. I would have to skip out a few minutes early and dodge her completely.
Leslie stormed back into the classroom a few minutes later. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, picked up her notebook, and spoke loudly. “May I be excused? I need to see the nurse.”
Mr. Clayton wrote her a hall pass. She stopped briefly at my desk, keeping her eyes toward the door, and said, “I can’t do this right now. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated, knowing tomorrow would never truly come.
Second and third periods passed by without incident, helping me to find the calm and normalcy I’d been craving. Both teachers were concerned with my absence, but neither one made me leave the classroom. When I sat down on the rickety wooden bench before my gym locker, it took me seven tries to get it open. One more failed attempt to remember my combination and I would have given up entirely.
I sat before the open locker as guys around me changed into their gym clothes. I couldn’t remove my jacket with everyone around me. The concealed holster had grown heavy on my shoulders.
At the far end of the row, Logan would typically be changing, but he wasn’t here either—another reminder that life had not returned to normal. Logan had stayed at the camp with Darius and his family and I was confident I’d see them again soon, but today I tried to distract myself from thinking of any future rebellion-related obligations.
One by one, the guys trickled out of the locker room and soon my row was empty. I peeked around the corner and saw those in the aisle were headed for the door. I rushed to remove my jacket and shoulder holster, hid the weapon in the coat bundle, and stuffed them both in the back of the locker. Then I placed my backpack in front of the bundle—out of sight, out of mind. Now I could change at a leisurely pace and join the rest of the students on the blacktop.
I got outside just in time to see my class disappear down the hill, headed toward the football field. I hurried after them, not worried about missing roll call. Coach Andrews stopped on the track that surrounded the field like a moat. I then knew what was on the agenda for today: running the mile.
When I reached the rest of the class on the track, Coach Andrews finally noticed me.
“Grain, so glad you could join us,” he said.
“Happy to be here, sir,” I replied.
“We need to talk about your—”
“I know,” I said, cutting him off. “My attendance. I’ll see you after class.” Though I had no intention of keeping this promise, either.
And that seemed to put him at ease. “All right. Good plan.”
He went back to addressing the class, telling everyone to stretch and do their best. This wasn’t a race against others, only yourself. Only you knew how much effort you were putting into your run. He had a clipboard of last week’s results and encouraged us to best our own times.
Obviously, I didn’t have results from last week on the clipboard, but if any of my old times were on there, then they’d be nothing to brag about. Coach Andrews had told me (on several occasions) that I wasn’t living up to my potential. I thought about his feedback, and when the whistle blew, I began running—not a halfhearted jog, but an actual run for a time I could be proud of. I ran from the orderly in black scrubs. I ran from the Lorne Royal Guard. I ran from gunfire in the Doria Falls rebellion camp. I ran from Kafka as he cleared a path through the forest. And I ran with Jeremy across the beach after the third Guardian of the Great In-Between was slain. I now knew what it felt like to run for my life, and I was still alive. I didn’t think about running. I didn’t think about impressing people in gym class. I thought about staying alive—how I had to stay alive—and to do so, I needed to train. And I needed to take any opportunity to train that I could. So I ran.
When I crossed the finish line, I nearly collapsed on the dirt. My whole body felt like it was on the brink of shutting down. But at least it wasn’t compounded by the crippling fear of being chased and shot at.
As I gained control of my breath again, I looked at everyone still running...and walking. And then I noticed my present company and realized I’d come in third place, just behind the first and second runners.
“6:15,” Coach Andrews said, walking up behind me and clapping me on the shoulder. “That was impressive. What were you doing during your time away?”
“Running, sir. A lot of running.”
“Well, it most certainly paid off. Nice job.” His smile radiated pride while he scribbled down my time on the clipboard.
I was impressed by the time, too, now knowing I could do anything I set my mind to. And for the past six minutes, I had set my mind to running.
I was one of the first to head back to change. Rushing to the back of the locker room, I found myself alone. I quickly changed my shirt so I could strap on the shoulder holster and cover it with my jacket. I was still sweating, which didn’t help with the addition of the jacket, but I had little choice. A few more guys joined me in the back row a few moments later, but they didn’t even glance my way. I probably could have strapped on the holster in front of them and they still wouldn’t have noticed.
Once I finished changing, I headed out of the locker room. Coach Andrews was conversing with a few female students on the blacktop, so I was able to slip away to the quad unnoticed.
There wasn’t much food in my house, so I had packed a lunch of peanut butter and jelly on a bagel with a side of cherry tomatoes. On the way to my locker to retrieve my poor lunch, a girl caught my eye—a girl I thought I’d never see again.
Anna.
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