Fenzy (2 page)
•••••••••
Jesse’s image clouded away as tears filled Xander’s eyes. He cried, big wailing sobs. Now that he’d said it, nothing could hold back the torrent of his emotions.
Someone dropped down beside him, put strong arms around him.
It was Jesse’s father hugging him. He didn’t say a word, just embraced him, as if knowing it was the only thing he could do. Xander reached to the arm that was crossing his chest and gripped it.
Jesse said, “Are you . . . are you sure?” His voice was high, like a six-year-old kid’s, and he was trembling. Tears poured down his cheeks.
Xander nodded. “I saw it. He . . . stabbed him. Taks . . . he ran away. Keal . . . our friend . . . he’s a nurse . . . he checked . . . there was no . . . no . . .” He couldn’t say it:
no pulse, no heartbeat
, because that said too much:
no life . . . no David
. It was too late.
He pushed Jesse’s father away so he could look at him. “Don’t build it,” Xander said. “Don’t build the house.” He looked past Jesse to the towering framework. “Burn it! You have to!”
Jesse’s father shook his head. “That won’t help, son.”
“But if there’s no house, then we wouldn’t move in. Taksidian wouldn’t try to take it. David and Taksidian would never meet, and Taksidian won’t
kill him!
”
“You’re here,” Jesse’s dad said. “If we don’t build it,
someone
will. You being here now proves it. We can’t change that. I’m sorry.”
“But . . . but . . .” Xander looked from the man to Jesse and back again. He dropped his head.
Jesse’s father touched his face. “You’re hurt,” he said. “That’s a bad gash on your chin.”
Xander slapped away his hand. “It’s not me!” he yelled.
“David . . . it’s David. There has to be something we can do!” he said, then whispered, pleadingly: “Something.” He looked at Jesse, and his anguish turned to anger. “Why didn’t you warn us?” he yelled. “You see me here now, telling you what happened. You’re fourteen. You come to the house to help when you’re in your nineties! You must have known. You never warned us! Why?”
Jesse’s lips quivered. “I . . . “ He squeezed his eyes, push-ing out fat drops. “I don’t know!” He rushed to Xander and knelt in front of him. He grabbed Xander’s shoulders. “I will! I promise, I will!”
“You don’t,” Xander said. “You didn’t.” A fact. Simple as that.
Xander stared into Jesse’s eyes. They were so blue, like the old man Jesse’s. For a moment he felt it was
him—
Old Man Jesse, not fourteen-year-old Jesse—making the promise. Xander wanted to punch him, punch him and never stop punching him.
“I wouldn’t forget this,” Jesse said. “I wouldn’t, not ever.”
“Maybe,” Xander said, “maybe . . .” He turned to Jesse’s dad. “I need to write it down, what happened. I need paper, paper and a pen.”
“Son, it’s too late.”
“I need a pen and paper!” Xander yelled.
“Please
.”
Jesse’s dad rose, he looked toward the house, back to Xander.
“Please,” Xander said. “I have to try. Something. Anything.”
Jesse’s dad trudged off toward the house, head low.
“What are you thinking?” Jesse said. He sniffed.
“Keep my letter,” Xander pleaded. “Read it every day. Maybe you won’t forget now. Maybe you
will
warn us.”
“I will. I promise.” Jesse’s eyes dropped to Xander’s arms. He pushed his fingers into the blood, then looked at his red fingertips. His face scrunched up in pain and sorrow.
Jesse’s dad returned with a scrap of paper and a pencil. Xander leaned back to sit on his heels. He spread the paper over his thigh and scribbled a word. His hands were shaking so badly, even he couldn’t read it. He groaned, tried again. Then he drew a picture. He looked at it and knew it was pointless. David was dead. Jesse never warned them. He crumpled the paper in his fist.
He leaned forward, wanted nothing more than to disap-pear, to be gone from this pain and this day.
David. David
.
His brother’s face filled his mind: floppy long hair, dim-ples, Dad’s hazel eyes—more green than brown. Those eyes always seemed to sparkle . . . until they didn’t. He had held David in his arms, yelling for help. So much blood. David had watched Xander’s face. He hadn’t seemed scared, he’d seemed almost at peace. Then his breathing had failed, and those eyes stopped sparkling; they had focused on some-thing far away and stayed that way.
Xander’s forehead landed in the mud between Jesse’s knees. He felt the boy’s hands on his back, comforting. But nothing could comfort him now. He let out a long howl. The tears came again, the wrenching sobs, and he knew they would never stop . . .
A
TLANTIS
, 9552
B.C
.
David had gotten himself into a real mess this time.
He and Xander had followed Phemus, the big man who had kidnapped their mom, from their house to this awful place. Taksidian and Phemus captured them in a town square, and while soldiers were chaining them to a line of children heading to war, David broke away. He darted into a workshop of some kind, heard the soldiers looking for him in an alley. But when he turned from the door, a group of tough Atlantian kids waited for him. They had come through a door on the opposite side of the workshop. Knowing what was coming, David had spun to the door behind him.
Now the six boys rushed up behind David, intending—he was sure—to kill him.
Their screams chilled his heart, but he
moved
: he grabbed the length of wood that barred the door and yanked it from its brackets.
His attackers’ shadows fell over him.
He hollered—an animal-sounding gush of effort and frustration—and spun, swinging the wood like a baseball bat and striking the lead attacker in the head. The energy of the impact vibrated into David’s arms, and the boy collapsed in front of him. The others braked, reeling back as David swung again, missing two of them by inches.
A kid kicked at the fallen boy, saying, “Theseus?”
Theseus groaned, and the others turned snarling faces toward David. Six of them—five now that one was down. All of them were armed with weapons: a club, a chain, a hammer. Every one bore signs of the rough life he had led, from a black eye and bruised ribs to fresh, bleeding gashes and missing teeth.
“Go!” David yelled, shaking the length of wood toward the door behind the boys, at the far side of the room. It was open, and sunlight streamed in, turning the attackers into shadowy figures. The place was as big as a barn, with planks of wood stacked taller than David. The only open area was between the two doors, where he and the boys now faced off. “Go!” David repeated.
Instead, a boy dived in, whipping a chain in front of him. David swung the wood. It struck the boy’s hand, and the chain went flying. The boy screamed and wheeled away, clutching his hand.
Before David could reverse his swing, a boy of about ten lunged in with a jagged piece of metal. David twisted away, and the weapon tore into his tunic-like shirt. The boy tried to pull away, but David turned to swing, and the boy got the metal tangled in the shirt. The boy’s eyes squeezed shut as the wood sailed toward his head.
David slowed it down in midswing. He didn’t want to kill the kid, even if these punks wanted to kill
him
. There was no hate in his heart—only panic and an intense desire to get away. Still, the impact made a sickening
thunk!
and the boy released his weapon, freed his hand, and stumbled back. He tumbled over the boy already on the floor—Theseus—and landed beside him.
Immediately another boy leaped, a hammer raised over his head. David jabbed, making contact with the boy’s stomach. The kid buckled and fell sideways.
David felt a fist slam into his own stomach, and the air inside him burst out of his mouth. He bent over, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs. The boy who’d punched him did it again, this time on the side of his face. David spun, and someone shoved him hard. He crashed into the door. On the other side of it, he knew, soldiers were pacing the alley, look-ing for him. Someone kicked him in the small of the back, and he yelled.
Turn!
he told himself
Fight! If you don’t, you’re dead!
But he was desperately in need of air that wouldn’t come . . . his back pulsated with pain . . . and the bony punch to his face had him seeing stars. The expression was true, he registered in some corner of his brain; dark starbursts flashed in front of his eyes as he tried to regain his senses.
He knew what was coming: a club cracking into his skull or a piece of metal slicing into skin, muscle, guts.
No!
He pushed off the door and started to turn. Hands grabbed him. They seized his arms, his shirt; one gripped the hair on the top of his head. They pulled, trying to get him into the center of the room, where all of them could pounce from every angle. He kicked the door, kicked it again, and it rattled and thumped.
The boys roughly turned him around and hoisted him up, and he saw Theseus was on his hands and knees, shouting angry commands.
“
Ton arpakste! Ton kratiste! Thelo to proto htypima!
”
Theseus rubbed his head and ear where David had clob-bered him. As he rose, he picked up the club he had dropped. He squared himself in front of David, a wicked smile on his face.
David thrashed, kicked, pulled. A boy twisted his left arm— the broken one—and David screamed in pain. His knees gave out, and blackness flooded his vision, but he didn’t pass out.
Theseus stared at the arm. He pointed the club at it and said, “
Labi ayto ekso!
”
The boy holding it pulled it straight. The one on the other side tugged on his right arm, forcing him to form the letter T with his body.
“No!” David said. “Please, no . . . “ But Theseus just glared at David as he hefted the club up over his head with both hands.
“DAVID!”
Xander’s scream left his mouth and was swept away by the pandemonium of the town square: men fighting, soldiers bark-ing out commands, corralled slaves shrieking for no apparent reason. He strained against his chains to get a glimpse of the place he’d last seen David, running between two vendors’ stalls.
He yelled his brother’s name again.
Ahhhgg .
. .
He knew he shouldn’t be calling for him. He wanted David to
run
, to get home, even if he, Xander, couldn’t. But he couldn’t help himself. He was so worried, his stomach was cramping. It had been five minutes, and the guards chasing David had not returned. What would they do to him if they caught him? He didn’t want to think about it.
Heaven knew this awful society had no regard for human life, especially the lives of kids. The chain gang of perhaps fifty children, to which he was tethered, was proof of that. Taksidian had said they would be put aboard a ship, where they would work until reaching Greece. Then they would be sent into battle ahead of the soldiers to confuse their enemy and force them to use their arrows. It was evil, pure and simple.
He pulled against the chains and yelled again: “Dav—“
The sting of a whip flared in his shoulder before the
crack!
reached his ears. He hissed in a breath, dropped his shoulder, and fell to his knees. He craned around to see the man who’d been following the chain gang pull the whip back for another strike.
“Stop!” Xander yelled. He lowered his head, and the whip slapped against his back. His T-shirt did nothing to temper its bite, and he yelled out. Gritting his teeth, he rose and tried to turn to his attacker. The chains binding his wrists stopped him. Xander felt tears in his eyes and blinked them away, then lifted his hand to wipe at them, but the chains prevented even that.
The whip-man spat out some words and gestured for Xander to face forward.
Xander turned. Rage tightened every muscle in his body. He wanted to rip the chains away, lash the man behind him with them, and run to find David.
Another man near them barked out a word. Chains rattled at the head of the line of bound children, then the boy in front of Xander began shuffling his feet. The chains drew taut and yanked at Xander. He stumbled forward, turning to look for his brother.
Run, David
, he thought.
Hide
.
They were taking them to the ship. It was going to leave— without David! Yes! It was better that he stayed here, as horrible as Atlantis was. Once they set sail, there would be no escap-ing, except into the ocean depths or the arrows of Atlantis’s enemies. Here they knew there was at least one portal home, the one through which they’d followed Phemus from their house in Pinedale, California, to ancient Atlantis. Here David at least had a chance.
A familiar voice sprang up on Xander’s left. Taksidian— still standing in the square next to the human weapon that was Phemus—was calling to the man leading the chain gang, waving to get his attention. He spoke in the native Atlantian tongue, and the chain gang stopped.
