BB and Red Page 5

  Thrace took a few moments to try and get his breath back, then scampered up a narrow stone staircase that took him to the front battlements, just above the main gate. He first peered over the side that overlooked the castle itself, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Thrace swallowed hard. It was up to him, then.

  He poked the top of his head over the front parapet and saw them advancing. It was a small party—no more than thirty or forty—but even if it had only been two or three, he was still outnumbered. And unarmed.

  “Thrace!” a distant voice called. They were close.

  “Who goes?” Thrace cried, trying and failing to keep his voice low and even.

  “You know who goes!” the voice called back. “Open the gate!”

  “Never!” Thrace replied. “I’ll be dust and bone on this wall before I ever open that gate!”

  He could hear them muttering among themselves. Thrace closed his eyes and willed his heart to stop beating so painfully in his chest. If he only had a crossbow, a bunch of stones to toss, anything.

  After a few moments of pregnant silence, a new voice called up to him.

  “Thrace?”

  It was a woman’s voice, sweet and lyrical. Why in the world had they brought a woman with them as part of a raiding party?

  “You forgot something,” the woman’s voice said.

  Thrace slowly hoisted himself out of his crouch and looked over the wall, ready to jump right back if he found himself the target of any ranged weapons.

  He spotted the woman at the base of the wall. Her hair was long and blonde and her eyes, peering up at him, were a brilliant blue.

  One of her hands was held up to him, and in it was a small orange bottle.

  “Your meds,” the woman said, shaking the bottle with a soft rattle. “You forgot your meds this morning.”

  Thrace looked at the rest of the faces staring up at him. They all looked somehow familiar. He felt his fear ebbing away. Was the woman an enchantress? Had she somehow cast a spell on him?

  “Come on, Thrace!” a man near the gate called up to him. “Get down here and take your meds! The rest of us want to tour the castle too!”

  VII.

  A WEEK BACK

  First voice memo:

  Testing. Testing. Are you hearing me? Are you recording me? I should have worked with voice memos sooner. I’ve only had the phone for three years. Why would I ever bother using voice memos? Okay, play that back.

  Next voice memo:

  Okay, I need you to start recording whenever you hear me talking. Got it? Good. Here we go.

  To whoever may find this, I want to tell my story. But before I start, I want to make sure to tell my mother, Patricia Smart, and my sister, Ashley Smart, both of Bellmoral, Oregon, that I love them more than I can ever say.

  My name is Alan Smart. I’m twenty-two years old, and I’ve done a very stupid thing.

  I’m a free solo climber. If you don’t know what that is, it means I climb mountains and cliffs with just my bare hands, no gear at all. I’ve climbed some of the toughest faces all over the U.S., Europe, China, Australia. I’ve climbed them all.

  A few weeks ago, a friend of mine told me about a place called Faitasiga Rock, a tiny island in the Tongan Archipelago. He said it was the ultimate free solo climbing experience, and if I really wanted to challenge myself, I should go there. I decided I had to check it out.

  I made it to Tonga with no problems, but once there, I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me about Faitasiga Rock. In fact, just bringing it up scared off most of the locals I talked to. Then finally I got a sailor, an old guy named Ponn who took people out on sunset cruises, to tell me about it.

  Ponn told me that the older natives believe Faitasiga Rock is haunted. The younger ones are a little more sensible, but they still consider it extremely unlucky. No one ever goes near it.

  Ponn said that if the Tongans found out he’d been here, they’d think he was tainted, and would never trust him again. So if I wanted to go to Faitasiga Rock, I was on my own.

  So I stole a boat. A really nice speedboat that I fully intended to return once I was done with it. So technically, I borrowed it. Though I’m not sure the owner would have ever wanted it back if he’d known where I took it.

  I’ll never forget seeing Faitasiga Rock for the first time.

  A blazing pink dawn had just broken over the horizon and I spotted it, a tiny black speck in the distance, jutting up from the water’s surface like a giant middle finger. I angled toward it and it grew and grew, impossibly tall, a stone monolith in the middle of the Pacific.

  When I was close enough and could see it properly, I couldn’t breathe. There was a small, fingernail-shaped stretch of beach, a few lone palm trees swaying in the wind, and the smoothest, flattest rock face I’d ever seen, climbing straight up, thousands of feet of it, just waiting to be conquered.

  I moored the boat at the edge of the beach and climbed out, trying to take in the enormity of the rock in front of me. Even with my head tilted all the way back, I couldn’t see the top of the thing. And there were no handholds or fissures that I could see. I couldn’t wait to get started.

  It took me most of the morning just to find anything I could use to get off the sand. Turned out there was a small seam on the face toward the end of the beach that you’d completely miss unless you were really looking for it. And I really was. So I started my ascent.

  It was hard. Oh man, was it hard. But every time I thought I’d reached a spot where I simply couldn’t continue, I’d find a tiny crack or a little outcropping and use it to keep going. But it was hard.

  I was probably 500 feet up when I came to a completely empty patch. I mean, there was nothing. The rock face was as smooth as a baby’s ass and as blank as a new canvas. I must have hung there for half an hour, scouring for something to grab, something to use, but my luck had run out. There was simply no way to keep going. On that route, anyway.

  I took a look over my shoulder and saw an amazing scene. The sky was a cloudless periwinkle blue. The sun sparkled off the ocean’s surface and lit the white sand so brightly I could hardly stand to look at it. Even the boat, sitting crookedly at the spot where the water met the sand, looked like it had been cut out of a magazine and pasted there. At that moment, I hadn’t decided whether or not I was going to attempt the climb at another spot, so if I was going to capture the beauty of that moment, I needed to take a selfie.

  I lined up the perfect shot, smiled my biggest smile . . . and fell.

  It was terror. Terror the likes of which I’ve never known. I’d just barely registered that I was no longer hanging on the rock, no longer clinging to anything at all and that the cliff face was speeding past me and the salt air whipping past me when I was enveloped in a rush of long leaves. I’d hit one of the palm trees, which had slowed me down a bit, but I still hit the sand hard.

  I remember when I first arrived here, I was surprised at how smooth the sand was. Usually you see debris, blowdown, shells, all sorts of stuff. But there was none of that. There was only a single stone, about the size of your fist, and I only noticed it because that was the only thing that broke up the perfect sandscape. One single stone. And I managed to land on it. I’m fairly certain that’s what broke my back.

  I suppose, if I’m accentuating the positive, at least I’m not in any pain. I can’t feel anything below my shoulders. I also can’t move my head, so I can’t see if anything’s broken or mangled. All I can see is this one specific patch of sky above me. Could be worse. I could have landed face down.

  Fortunately, my phone landed in the sand somewhere near me. Like I said, I can’t turn my head to look, but it’s close enough to hear my voice, so at least there’s that.

  And . . . that’s my story. Which I suppose is all pretty moot unless someone finds my phone someday. And that’s pretty unlikely, given everyone’s attitude toward this place. But I guess in the interest of battery conservation, I’ll wrap up for now. End voice memo.

 
Next voice memo:

  Well, my phone can’t connect to anyone or anything, so I can’t get a weather forecast, but I don’t need my app to know there’s a thunderstorm coming. I can hear the distant rumble, and out of my peripheral vision I can see the flashes of lightning. This should be interesting. At least I’ll have something to wet my whistle, which at this point, is pretty fucking dry. End voice memo.

  Next voice memo:

  Well that was fun.

  The first few drops did, indeed, wet my whistle, and then the next million or so very nearly drowned me.

  My mouth filled too fast, and since I can’t turn my head, I spit the rainwater out but it just filled right back up again. When I closed my mouth, the rain went right up my nose. I feel like I’ve been waterboarded. Let’s not do that again anytime soon, okay?

  Oh, by the way, it may be obvious, but my phone survived that storm. I really must let the HardCase company know that they make a quality product. Maybe I’ll write a review. If I ever get out of here.

  Right, yes, speaking of my phone, it now has 49 percent battery life remaining. Less than half. Don’t know what I’m going to do when there’s no one and nothing left to talk to. End voice memo.

  Next voice memo:

  Where am I? Oh . . . right. I’m paralyzed on a beach. That’s why I can’t move anything. I think I’ve got a really bad sunburn. And I’m so thirsty. Didn’t it rain not too long ago? I can’t see if any storm clouds are on the horizon. I’ve only got this little patch of blue sky. There’s a small white cloud moving from left to right across my field of vision. It looks a little like a turtle. I guess I’ll watch that for a while.

  Oh, and for anyone keeping score at home, there’s 23 percent power remaining. End voice memo.

  Next voice memo:

  Where’s the . . . ? I thought . . . I heard my dad calling me. I thought it was time to get up for school. But Dad’s dead. Right? Dad’s dead?

  It was . . . I was just thinking of Thanksgiving. I was back home with Mom and Ashley and it . . . it was Thanksgiving morning. I could smell the turkey and Mom’s fresh-baked rolls cooking in the oven. I was . . . hugging Ashley tight. My arms still worked and I felt her wrapped tight around my neck. I was whole and . . . happy.

  I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to die. But . . . who’s going to save me?

  What’s the . . . ? I’m supposed to . . . say something. Right? Oh. End voice memo.

  Next voice memo:

  Dad’s not . . . Dad’s not dead. Stupid. Mom . . . used to say . . . “Your father’s dead to me.” He kept . . . coming home with that stuff, that stuff that strippers put on. What’s . . . what’s the word? Glitter. Body glitter. Dad . . . kept coming home . . . with body glitter on his work clothes. He wound up . . . calling it . . . “divorce dust.” Heh. Hee hee hee. Voice end memo. No. End voice memo.

  Next voice memo:

  Something . . . moving. On the sand. Between me and the ocean. Can’t . . . see it properly. What is that?

  Eh. Probably . . . losing my shit. When . . . did I eat last? Thanksgiving? That right?

  End. End the thing. The voice memo. End voice memo.

  Next voice memo:

  Oh God! Oh God! Oh God help me please! No! No! No! There’s—there’s—there’s a crab! A giant fucking crab! There’s a crab on my chest! I can’t shake him off! I can’t shake him off! Get it off me! Get it the fuck off me!

  Aaagh! It’s clawing me! It’s clawing my fucking face! Help me! Please! Somebody help meeeeeeeee! Aaaaaahhhh!

  End of voice memos.

  VIII.

  JAIL BRAKE

  It had been a perfectly calm, ordinary day at Kirkbride Minimum Security Prison. Stan Kemske, an average guy with an above-average aversion to paying taxes, was meeting with his lawyer, Fred.

  “Well?” Stan had started off.

  Fred sighed. “I brought your request to the judge. He denied it.”

  Stan’s cheeks immediately flushed, but his voice remained steady. “Why?”

  “Try and see it from his point of view, okay?” Fred said. His voice had a weariness to it that told of many similar discussions. “If he lets you out, he’s gonna have a stack of papers eight miles high with requests from everyone else in here.”

  “Good!” Stan shouted. The guards outside the room looked over, so he lowered his voice. “Good. He should have a request from every man and woman in every prison from here to Azerbaijan. It’s inhumane, Fred.”

  Fred leaned in. “Look, I agree with you, okay? I do. But what do you want them to do? Just let all the murderers and rapists out on the street?”

  Stan folded his hands on the table between them and closed his eyes. “If there were a fire here, they would evacuate the prisoners. They wouldn’t let them stay here and die like rats in cages.”

  “But they would put them in another prison,” Fred said. “They wouldn’t just let them go.”

  “These are extenuating circumstances, Fred,” Stan said patiently. “We are all going to die in here. The world is ending, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I know the world is ending, goddammit,” Fred said irritably. “We’re all going to die. What difference does it make where we are when it happens?”

  The two men considered each other for a moment.

  “Fred, I don’t care what we have to do or what kind of paperwork we have to file. You’ve got to get me out.”

  Fred shook his head slowly. “Stan. Listen to me very carefully. It doesn’t matter what you say or what you do. They are not letting you out of here.” He let his words sink in for a minute, then stood and started gathering up some paperwork. Stan sat in his chair, stone-faced.

  As Fred walked toward the door, he turned and said, “Look, don’t feel bad, okay? They’re not letting the animals out of the zoo either.”

  That’s when all hell broke loose.

  “Get me the warden!” Stan screamed. Fred squirmed, trying to loosen Stan’s grip around his throat to gasp some air, and the blade at his neck pierced the skin. Crimson tracks rolled down to his shirt collar.

  The sight of blood seemed to change the guards’ minds. One grabbed the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.

  “Sully, get the warden down to C-133 right away. We got a hostage situation.”

  The other guard took a step toward the cell door, palms up in surrender. “Okay, Kemske, okay. We called the warden, he’s coming, okay? Just relax.”

  Stan held tight to Fred, whose face was turning a startling shade of purple as oxygen wheezed in and out. “You should have tried harder, Fred,” Stan said distractedly. “I didn’t want it to happen this way. You should have tried harder.”

  After a few tense minutes, the warden walked calmly into the room outside the visitors’ cell. He looked the situation over, took a deep breath, and sighed. In his right hand he held a document.

  “Mr. Kemske? You wanted to see me?” the warden said quietly.

  “Yes. I wanted to see you, warden. I didn’t want to have to do this. I’m not a violent man by nature, but I’ll do what I have to to get out of here. Now let me out, or I’ll kill him.”

  The warden smiled—a small, tight smile without any humor whatsoever. As though it were just an ordinary business meeting, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his reading glasses. He brought the document he’d been holding up to eye level.

  “Funny you should mention that. I’ve just received an official notice from the governor’s office,” the warden said. “All non-violent criminal offenders are to be released from incarceration immediately.”

  A look of stupefied joy spread across Stan’s face. He dropped the shiv and let go of Fred, who gave him a quick, angry shove and then ran, sweaty and crimson-faced, for the cell door. One of the guards unlocked it and Fred ran through. The guard locked it again quickly.

  “My e-mails?” Stan said, still in disbelief.

  The warden nodded. “So it would seem. Apparently the governor hadn’t considered the plight
of the prisoners in his jurisdiction until you made him aware of it. I expect he’s been somewhat distracted, as have we all, what with the end times upon us.”

  From the hallway beyond the visitors’ area came an echoing whoop of joy, followed by another and then dozens more as the news spread around the prison. A chorus of shouting, singing, and laughter bounced off the cinderblock walls.

  “Yes!” Stan shouted, swept up in the moment. “I did it!”

  “Yes,” the warden said, folding his arms. “You certainly did.”

  Past the doorway walked a figure clad in an orange jumpsuit, the first of the prisoners headed to processing before release. The man turned to look in the room and saw Stan sitting there. His face lit up.

  “Hey!” he shouted and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “We’re out! We’re all out! Thanks, man!”

  Stan gave a big thumbs-up of his own and the man moved along. He stood and walked toward the locked cell door where the warden and two guards stood on the other side.

  “Well?” Stan said.

  “Well what?” the warden replied.

  “I’d like for one of them to unlock the door,” Stan said, nodding his head at the guards. “It’s time for me to go.”

  The warden sized him up. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  The warden held up the letter. “This specifically says ‘non-violent criminal offenders.’”

  Stan blinked. “So? Last time I checked, tax evasion qualified as non-violent.”