Raven Rise (37 page)

“People still live out here,” Richard said. “They're like wild tribes, sticking together for security. This isn't the kind of place to be spending time if you're an outsider.”

“Really? What about us?”

“Let's just say it will be better if this old jalopy doesn't break down,” Richard answered ominously.

When they had driven for nearly an hour, Patrick noticed changes. They first drove past a series of small, crumbling cement structures that spread out to either side of the thruway.

“Security outposts,” Richard answered, as if he knew what Patrick was wondering. “Back in the day they were filled with armed soldiers.”

“What for?”

“To keep the curious away. If you didn't have business out here, you'd never get past this perimeter. It circles around for miles.”

“What were they protecting?”

Richard didn't answer and Patrick didn't press.

Once past the abandoned military-style bunkers, the signs of civilization became fewer and farther between. The trees grew more dense. Green foliage became thicker. It was the first pleasant sight Patrick had viewed on the new Third Earth.

“Pretty,” he commented without thinking.

“That was the idea,” Richard said with a snarl. “If you were brought out here, you first had to travel through this pleasant, green forest. I guess it calmed people down and made them feel like they were going someplace swell.”

“People were brought here? Why? What is this place?”

Richard answered, “They called it Stony Brook.”

Patrick shot Richard a stunned look. “Stony Brook?”

“You heard of it?” Richard asked, surprised.

Patrick wasn't sure how to answer. “I knew people who came from there.”

Richard gave a skeptical laugh. “Not this place. Nobody comes from Stony Brook.”

Patrick didn't press Richard any further. He knew he'd get answers soon enough. The forest they passed through bore no resemblance to the hometown of Bobby Pendragon. Patrick couldn't imagine why people would have been brought to the home of the Traveler from Second Earth. They drove several miles through dense forest, until the trees opened up to reveal a long, stone wall that at one time was probably white, but was now dirty gray. It stretched out before them for several hundred yards before turning at right angles away and continuing on for a distance that Patrick couldn't see. On either front corner were large round turrets with peaked roofs. At dead center were huge, wrought-iron gates that hung open on rusted hinges.

“It's like a castle fortress,” Patrick gasped.

“I think that was the idea. Coming up here, you had the feeling you were entering someplace special. To the best of my knowledge, it's been empty for over a hundred years.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“I told you, there are still records,” Richard answered. “Hidden around. Here and there. People trade bits of information like contraband. I came across an ancient transfer order that sent a huge shipment of ‘relos' to Stony Brook. I'd never heard of Stony Brook before that. Or relos for that matter. The more I dug, the more I learned.” Richard looked at Patrick with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Once I started putting things together, I couldn't resist taking a look for myself.” The gleam turned into a tear. “I wish to all that's good and decent that I hadn't.”

Richard hit the gas and drove them past the rusted, hanging gates.

The front half of the compound was nothing more than a large, empty courtyard that was half the size of a football field. It was full of dust and weeds that poked up through the cracked asphalt. Rising up on the far side, opposite the gates, was an elaborate structure, with stone pillars that reminded Patrick of the cathedral-like Ravinian building built over the flume entrance in the Bronx. The structure had seen better days. Large chunks of marble had fallen from the ornate molding that skirted the roof above the columns. Though far past its prime, it was still a majestic site.

“What is it?” Patrick croaked.

“It's the gate into hell,” Richard answered as he got out of the car.

Patrick followed quickly as the old man shuffled across the cracked courtyard, toward the imposing columns.

“Quite the sight, isn't it?” Richard asked as they walked. “Who knows what people thought when they came here? Apparently they were told they were going to be shown the wonders of Halla.”

“Isn't that what the flume in the Bronx was for?” Patrick asked.

Richard stopped and looked at Patrick. “That place in the Bronx was for Ravinians. This place was for everyone else. People would be driven here in buses. I believe they disembarked right here, where we're standing. They'd be led through these pillars. From what I've read, they all went willingly, though they must have wondered why there were armed guards up in those turrets.”

Patrick looked up to the round turrets that were on each corner of the tall wall that surrounded them. It suddenly felt less like a magical castle and more like a prison.

Patrick asked, “Who was brought here?”

Richard began to tremble. “At first they brought the weak. The handicapped. The elderly. Those with debilitating diseases. As time went on, they weren't as discerning. If you lived in one of the Horizon Compounds, there was always a chance you might end up here.”

Patrick croaked, “I don't like where this story is going.”

“No?” Richard blurted out. “You said you wanted the truth.”

“I do,” Patrick confirmed adamantly.

“I believe the term they used was…‘marginalized,'” Richard said. “That's what they did with relos. They were marginalized.”

He left Patrick and walked toward the columns. Patrick glanced around the empty compound, a knot of dread twisting his stomach. He wanted to get the heck out of there, but he had to know the whole truth. It's what his mission was all about. He followed Richard up to a set of massive, steel doors. One was open slightly. Barely enough for a person to squeeze through.

“Had to pry this open,” Richard explained. “I never would have gotten in if the locks hadn't rusted. Even after they shut it down, they didn't want people wandering in.”

Richard squeezed through the opening, followed right behind by Patrick. Inside was a grand marble foyer. No electric lights burned. The only illumination came from sunlight that was sneaking in through high windows. Patrick saw that the space was ringed by austere marble columns.

“Feels like a tomb,” he commented softly.

Richard gave Patrick a quick look, an ironic chuckle, then walked to the far side of the room, where a flight of stairs led down into the dark. The librarian continued down without stopping. Patrick didn't follow right away. As soon as he saw the stairs, it clicked. He felt certain he knew what he would find down below. What he didn't know was what it meant. To find that answer, he had to follow Richard.

Patrick went for the stairs and had to descend only a few steps to see it, just as he suspected. Sitting on the far side of a plain, cement-walled basement room, recessed in the wall, was the flume.

“It's the Sherwood house,” he gasped.

“I don't know anything about a Sherwood house,” Richard said. “Seems to me it was more like a house of horrors.” Richard stepped into the mouth of the flume and continued. “From the accounts I've pieced together, Naymeer himself would preside. The poor people they called ‘relos' were led down here and told to walk inside the tunnel. Naymeer would stand here with his ring and activate this infernal device. The people would walk in and that would be the last anyone ever saw of them. This was how the Ravinians got rid of those they didn't feel worthy.”

“No!” Patrick blurted out. “That doesn't make sense.” His mind was working too fast to worry about being discreet. “The flume only works for Travelers. It's dangerous for anybody else to use it.”

“Dangerous?” Richard scoffed. “Those poor people were executed! Can't get any more dangerous than that!”

“No,” Patrick blathered. “That's not how it works. The flume doesn't kill people.”

“Then what happened to them?” Richard shot back. “They went in and didn't come back out. By the thousands. If somebody didn't fit the Ravinian profile, the person was either used as a slave, or categorized as a relo and sent here. That's what they're trying to hide, Teacher. Genocide. It lasted for decades. Once Naymeer got too old to continue, he passed the ring on to his acolytes. That's what he called them. Acolytes. The Ravinians purged the world of anyone they thought was inferior or didn't agree with their philosophy. It wasn't about race or religion or even politics. It was all about the individual's ability to contribute. If you fell on one side of the line and were a productive, intelligent person, you lived comfortably. If you fell on the other side of the line, you could end up a relo and sent here. It was all about reducing the excess population, taking stress off of an overburdened system, and allowing the elite to thrive. That's how they were able to take control. If you caused trouble, you were gone.”

Patrick paced, shaking his head. “It can't be.”

“Why not?” Richard asked. “Because you don't believe people are capable of such evil? That they can flat out exterminate their enemies? History proves you wrong, Teacher. The Ravinians prove you wrong. Heck, what happened up here was nothing compared to the Bronx Massacre.”

Patrick whipped a look at Richard. “Bronx Massacre?”

“You never heard of that either?” Richard snarled. “What kind of a teacher are you?”

Patrick stalked toward Richard. “A confused one. What was the Bronx Massacre?”

Richard sniffed. “Only the event that started it all. It put the Ravinians in power. They showed what they were capable of and took the world hostage.”

Patrick was doing his best to control his voice and his emotions. “Richard, what exactly was the Bronx Massacre?”

Patrick heard a pop. It sounded like a firecracker. The sound reverberated off the stone walls of the flume.

“What was that?” Patrick asked.

He looked to Richard. The old man gazed back with glassy eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead collapsed. Patrick caught him.

“Richard!” he called out.

Patrick pulled his hand away, to find it covered with blood. Richard's blood. He'd been shot. Patrick looked up quickly. The only place the shots could have come from was deep within the flume. Patrick was in the dead center of its mouth.

“I'm sorry, Richard,” he whispered, and rested the old man down on the rock floor…and ran. He dodged to his right as two more pops were heard. They missed him, slamming into the stairs. Patrick pumped his knees, taking three steps at a time. It wasn't just about survival. Patrick knew he had to get this information back to Pendragon. He had to let Pendragon know that Naymeer and the Ravinians were using the flume to exile their enemies to other parts of Halla. The flume was being used as the ultimate weapon in Saint Dane's quest to control Halla. He no longer had to destroy those who didn't fit in with his plans—all he needed to do was send them elsewhere. But where? There was no way to know.

Then there was the Bronx Massacre. What was it?

Patrick reached the top of the stairs, squeezed through the opening in the steel doors, and sprinted for the car. He stayed low, hoping to make a smaller target. He got to the car without having another shot fired at him, and dove inside. Patrick had never driven an old car. He was used to the quiet, electric vehicles of his Third Earth. He had watched Richard. He twisted the ignition key. The engine turned over.

“Yes!”

He hit the gas and spun the wheel. The car skid across the asphalt, kicking up dirt and gravel. Patrick aimed for the front gates and jammed his foot to the floor. The old vehicle squeaked and complained, but it moved. Fast. With each second he felt more comfortable behind the wheel. He felt sure he was going to make it. All he would have to do was figure out how to drive the car back to the Bronx and the other flume. He didn't want to leave Richard, but there was no choice. He had to get to the other flume. He had to get to Bobby.

He was ten yards from the front gate when a large truck shot in front of the opening, directly in front of the speeding car. The truck skidded to a stop, blocking the way. Patrick wasn't an experienced driver. Even if he had reacted quickly, he was still driving too fast. He slammed on the brakes. It was too late. He hit the side of the truck at full speed. The crash was violent. Patrick flew into the windshield, vaguely aware of glass shattering. He bounced back into the front seat, stunned. The world swam around him. He was hurt. Badly. He knew it. He knew he'd never make it to the flume. He forced himself to focus. He had to warn Pendragon.

Gasping for breath, he found the pad of paper Richard had given him. He couldn't move his right arm. It was broken. The pain told him so. He used his left. Patrick fumbled for the paper and wrote. He coughed, sending a spray of blood splattering across the page. Patrick knew he didn't have much time left. The pooling blood on the floor was proof of that. He would have to convey all that he knew in a few words. As he wrote, more of his blood dripped onto the page. He fought the dizziness that was quickly overtaking him. He forced himself to think. What words to use? What words?