SAVE POINT 107

Loading A Mission & A Little Boy...44.44%

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EmeraldCity_88

I'm not stupid; I, obviously, wait till it's dark. We've been walking all day, and my thighs are randomly killing me. But I've been stewing about this for hours, and I'm going to go through with it. I bite the inside of my cheek, scanning the dark sky brewing overhead with far too much navy and not enough egg-yoke-yellow; I've got to hurry before Skipper or the guards decide I need to be locked up in a cell too. ...If I was a boy prisoner, where would I be?

Middle of camp, I reason quickly.

More eyeballs.

Less possibility of escape.

If they're smart at least... That's what I'd do; I'd put him right in the middle of all of it.

I curse myself—not for the first time today. I'd been watching the kid like a hawk, but, somewhere along the line, I'd blinked, and he'd disappeared. The guards took him away, and I'd missed it. I'd missed exactly what I'd been looking for—Goddamnit!

But I will find him. That's for sure. There's no way in hell that I'm letting Skipper have killing a child on her conscience. Something's wrong with her and, until I figure out what, I'm gonna have to be the one to take out the trash—do the necessary things to help her save herself. I'll get the boy kid out of here, safe. I'll get us both out...away from...her. Fuck always having to be the big sister. I came into this Game to play, not have to do the right thing. Since when have I had a moral compas? ...I guess since it seems like my baby sister has less of one...

My stomach growls for a minute, distracting me. Lunch and dinner were meager—a product of low rations of what seems to be Skipper's sinking army. And I'd watched the guards trip over themselves bowing to her, offering her more than her fair share of food.

And she took it.

She ate while the rest of us drooled.

...Something's weird about her—I just can't put my finger on it... She used to be all for life and humor—now, her MO appears to be death and destruction. I guess it's grating on my nerves a little that she's stepping into my territory. I only got that way after her death—no, because of her death. Skipper shouldn't have to live in that space, and we all shouldn't have to live with the consequences. Not if I can help it.

I steal past a few talking groups, pulling the edge of a hoodie hood I'd borrowed from Skipper over the bright-green edges of my hair and hiding my face in shadow by tilting it downward.

Is the little boy in one of these tents? I just keep getting flashes of his terrified, dirt-smudged face; the pictures roll endlessly through my mind like a movie preview, making my skin crawl—

That's when I see the lighthouse. No joke. There is a white-and-black, striped lighthouse—massive—squatting amidst the trees, winding its stucco tower up through the darkened branches to a bright beam on top. My mouth drops open. Someone created this? How did I not see it before? Is this what I've been looking for?

It's in the center of the camp we've set up for the night. Those walls are probably cinder block and several inches thick—

"My fucking brilliant idea," boasts a man's loud voice as he jabs a thumb at his chest—shit, I didn't see him! I hurl myself into the nearest shadow, behind the corner of a tent, breathing heavily, as my eyes sweep over his stocky body, red hair and beard. The rather smug expression on his rosy face tells me he's rather pleased with himself. "The lighthouse is symbolic, see?" he continues, his southern accent making a slow show of his words, "We're shining a light on this darkness by offing that kid. We're purging it out. We're like beacons of light."

...Well isn't he a regular Shakespeare? ...As well as being creepily, completely wrong about the entire situation...

The buddy he's talking to raises a skeptical—and probably confused—eyebrow that mirrors my own cringe.

He thinks killing a kid is comparable to shining a light?! These people are fucked up...

"It gets even better," whispers his friend, his eyes scanning the perimeter to safeguard the exchange, which makes me duck further into the blackness. The man's pale skin almost looks see-through against the long, concave bones of his face, "The Queen says she's going to take vengeance on those pigs at the Higher Place—the Game Maker, you know? Says we're gonna rain down plagues on them like some Biblical shit—"

The first guard chuckles. "I ain't got no problem with that at all," he gripes, "But I'm just focusing on the here and now, you know what I mean? Let's find her sister and get her secured for the night. Betcha she'll kick and scream and throw a hissy. Better if we get it done, right?"

My breath shortens.

That bitch! Skipper did order to lock me up and I'd basically kissed her ass and stayed out of her way the whole day! My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I press my back into the fabric tent wall on my side. I can't let them see me—

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The horse-faced, pale one nods, "Sure, go find her. I'll stand guard."

And I thank my lucky stars that it's the lanky one who's left guarding the lighthouse as the burly one brushes by. I can probably take the lanky one; by the looks of him, he's one hundred pounds soaking wet. Now for my method...

A rock sits squarely in front of the toe of my boot. It's big enough to be hard-hitting, but smooth enough not to kill...

Hmmm.

Okay.

Bystander with intent just met opportunity...

Silently—like I've had practice at this which I desperately am trying to figure out right now if I have—I bend to pick it up. The jagged edges bite into the skin of my fingers as I creep forward—

I barely breathe as he turns and I approach from behind—

Two steps—

Wham!

I club him in the back of the head.

His knees buckle.

I knew I was a badass...kind of. This feels so...alien.

Taking a shaky breath that does nothing to calm the weird spiral of jittering adrenaline, terror and excitement spiraling up my arms, I lean over the unconscious guard. My trembling fingers wrench the key off his belt—

Stepping efficiently over the body as I cast a worried glance around, I run to the lighthouse door, flattening my palms in protest against the wooden monstrosity before my fingers fumble with the lock and key—

It clicks.

Open!

I heave myself against the heavy door, darting inside when the space is large enough—

"Where are you?" I call into the pitch blackness that my eyes can't adjust to quickly enough, "I'm here to get you out." My voice sounds tremory and uneven as it bounces above my head, coming back at me in echoes from several places.

"Hello?" I try again.

But it's in the quiet after my words where I find the kid—or rather, a shuffle and sniffles...soft crying coming from a shadow in the back. I move slowly forward, stepping carefully with hands raised in surrender. Wide eyes greet me—the boy. Frightened and cringing away from me.

"I—I'm here to get you out of here so they won't hurt you," I emphasize slowly, taking care each word is soft and clear. "It's okay. Please come with me. I want to help."

The kid is sniveling, wiping his nose heavily on a ratty sleeve that's obviously been used for that purpose too often. His clothes are dirt-smudged and his hair, tousled. He has a general air of exhaustion like he's been sleeping on the ground for several days...or, maybe, not at all.

And, trust me, I'm not much for children but there's something in his face that I recognize...desperation? Need for help? And I've...I've been there before. I've hit that rock bottom before. That was how I felt after the funeral—Skipper's funeral. The house smelled like lasagna in a way that made me want to throw up, and there were a million faces that seemed so far away. Like I was an animal on show at the zoo, and they were all staring, peering, at me from behind the glass wall of my tears. No matter how I blinked back—no matter what I said—no one would reach through that glass—shatter it. No one took the time to just...sit with me.

So, that's how I know what to do.

Right now.

I slide to the cold, hard, concrete floor, and, ignoring the counting-down clock ticking in my head, I hug my knees to my chest and just perch there, a few feet from him.

"I'm sorry they did this to you," I whisper, feeling a faint frowning tug at my lips.

Silence.

The kid hangs his head. His dirty fingers pry at the shoelaces of his sneakers.

"I'm Cassandra...some people call me EmeraldCity_88 'cause it's my screenname—on the computer, you know?" I try again, "What's your name?"

I've caught something; I can see the hitch of interest in the kid's face as he squints up at me in the light coming through a window above. His thick lips contort in confusion as his hands pick at his socks now, "Why did you want EmeraldCity as your screenname?" His eyes dart up and shock me with the open innocence I see there.

He's just a young kid—curious, open...sure, with a dark rash on his legs but... I have to get him out of here—

"It's 'cause I like green," I tell him, shaking out my hair from my hoodie so he can see. "The Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz is green." His eyes get even wider when he sees my shamrock locks.

"Hey, listen," I plead, "If you want to get out of here, I can take you. You just have to follow me, and we have to be really quiet, you understand?"

After a moment of slow hesitation, the boy nods.

And I push myself to my feet, beckoning at him as I turn around—

And, unexpected, I feel a cold hand slide into mine. I look down to see the little boy grasping my fingers tightly.

"Darren," he breathes, "My name's Darren."

And its my turn to nod and smile secretly to myself as we creep out of the lighthouse together and into the woods, his small steps trailing behind my quick ones.

I hear the guards shouting as we duck behind a fan of thick greenery. Grass crunches under our feet. The sun's down now, and the woods are black with the shadows of spiney tree branches above as the only thing distinguishing the skyline from the ground. The little boy's lip trembles, and I squeeze his hand tighter.

"It's going to be okay," I promise, but even I'm aware that it's going to be hopeless trying to find our way anywhere in this pitch black. My head swivels east to west, trying to determine where is best to run—

> This way, child.

I jump—a voice? ...Soft, yet booming...

In my mind?

And I might be dreaming, but I see a soft light glowing through the brush.

Far away.

Pulsing.

And, as I look at it, warmth flows over me—a feeling of shelter and safety.

I gape at it. "Do you—do you see that?" I stutter to the kid, pointing.

And he nods.

So this isn't a dream but...well, for some reason and against every logical reason, I'm still inclined to move towards the glowing, bobbing light.