The Moon Dwellers (24 page)

“Never served a s
un dweller before,” the guy says
, his light tone switching to he
avy right about the time he says
the words
sun dweller
.
I sense
a hidden
meaning behind his words: It’s not
that
he has
never had a sun dweller in
his pizzeria, but that he will
never
serve
a sun dweller, even if they a
re his only customers.

“Fair enough,” I say
, standing up.
“We’ll take that as our cue to leave.”

The pizza man put
s
a hand on each of my should
ers and pushes
me firmly back into my chair.
“There’s a fir
st time for everything,” he says
.

I’m not sure what he means.
That he is
going to serve us like any other customer
s?
Or that he i
s going to head back into the kitchen and cook up the most delectable, hot, gooey,
poisoned
pizza he has
ever ma
de
?
Whatever the case, I’m not
going to take any ch
ances.
As soon as the owner barrels
through the swinging doors
to the kitchen,
I am back on my feet.
Roc i
s up at the same time, knowing without asking what
our next move will
be.

We move toward
the door.

Two big men block
the door, standing tall with their arms crossed.
Not good.
I don’t even know where they
’ve co
me from.
I don’t recall seeing them in the restaurant—a
nd if they had been, we would’
ve see
n them moving toward
the door.
They
could have come from outside, but I probably would’
ve heard them scuffle acro
ss the threshold, unless they a
re professional sneaks.
There is a staircase that ri
se
s up from just to the right
of the entrance, however, presumably leading to sleeping quarters for the
bald pizza man
.
Perhaps he has sons who live
with him, who, upon overhearing our conversation—key words being
sun
and
dwellers
—thought it polite to pop down and say
hello.
Of course, these men a
re staring
right at us and their lips a
ren’t exactly movi
ng; if not “hello
,
” I would take
“good evening
,
” “
welcome
,
” or even “hiya” at this
point.
No words—just stares.
If these guys are his sons, they are genetic freaks, more than twice the size of their dad.

“Excuse me,” I say
, still trying t
o avoid confrontation.
They don’t move, just stan
d t
here staring.
I try
to squeeze through the
middle of them, but they inch
closer together, sh
oulder to shoulder.
I attempt
to skirt around them, but they move
like a single organism, blocki
ng the side.
The only option left i
s
through
them.
So be it.

I ta
k
e a few steps back and charge
.

The feint is as important as the attack itself.

I fake like I am
going to try and club each of them over the head with a different one of my fists
.
Because all of my activity is aimed high, they counter
with high defenses and attacks of their o
wn.
The guy on the left covers
his head with his arms and hands to block my at
tack.
The guy on the right goes
on the offensive, attempting a haymaker punch intended to end the fight quickly, possibly breaking my jaw or giving me a mild concussion.
Big mistake.

At the last second I thro
w my head back and
launch
both feet forward like torpedoes.
Each
boot heel
hit
s one of the guys’ knees.
I have
so much for
ward momentum that the impact i
s like getting hit by a concrete block
.
I feel
their knees buckle, crack, bend
back the wrong way.
And I hear
their screams of pain, a
harmonized “ARGHHH!” that will
surely bring the pizza man running back out of the kitchen.

They tumble
backwards o
ut the open doorway and I land
on them in a mess of arms and legs,
at least two of which contain
broken bones.
Not mine.

While I attack, Roc is not idle.
He i
s already out the door, grabbing me under my arms, hoisting me
back to my feet.
And then we a
re running.

The guys with t
he broken kneecaps won’t be chasing us, but we do
n’t know who else might come to their rescue.
Given our first taste of
subchapter 14 hospitality, we a
ren’t about to stick around and plead our case to the locals.
Apparently
,
all those screaming, cheering girls—the ones chucking underwear—at
the parade the day before live
outside the town.

We do
n’t hea
r anyone pursuing us, but we don’t stop running until we a
re back inside our motel lobby.

The hotel guy should look
up, considering the way we burst through the door, panting and sweating
and out of control.
But he doesn’t.
He i
sn’t reading h
is paper anymore either.
He’
s
rolled it up and i
s using it as a pillow, his c
raggly old cheek resting upon it, smudging the print all over his face.
Buzzing snores ari
se from him.
Deep sleeper
, I think
.
Hear no evil, see no evil.
The perfect place for us to stay.

I never thought I’
d be so happy to see the inside of that
tiny shoebox room.
Roc and I sit down on the bed and look
at each
other, our eyes wide
.
Then we a
re laughing, in between taking deep, heaving breaths, happy to just be away from that terrible pizzeria.

“Wh
at was that all about?” Roc says
.

“I dunno.
I g
uess they don’t like us,” I say
.

“More like
hate
us.”

I nod
.
“Good thing they didn’t recognize me.”

“We can’t stay too much lo
nger in this place,” Roc points
out.

“I know.
But I have to at least try to see her, to do something
, to make sure she’s okay
.”

“Then we have to do it tonight.
We can’t
linger, Tristan.”
Roc’s eyes are dark and serious.
I value his counsel, even when I do
n’t want to hear it.

“We’ll go at midnight,” I say
.
“Let’s get some sleep.”
My stomach is growling, but I ignore it.

We have
three hours before midnight.
I let Roc have the bed.
It isn’t often he ge
t
s something that I do
n’t.
Roc set
s an alarm and goes straight to sleep.
I linger
, taking the time to brush my teeth and show
er in the empty bathroom.
I have to be presentable if I am
going to see her tonight.

By the time I get back to the room, Roc i
s breathing heavily, twitching s
lightly on the bed as he dreams
about getting chased by angry guards, or perhaps deranged pizza chefs.

I ta
k
e
my place on the floor, using the extra pillow t
o rest my head on.
The stone i
s
hard under my back, but that is one thing I am
used to: stone.
Ever
yone living in the Tri-Realms is used to it.
I can’t wait for the day I’ll
be free of it.

Before I drift
off to
sleep, I think about how I
fainted when I was
thinking about the girl.
It i
s as if her beauty, or he
r presence—or maybe her aura?—i
s too much for
my own soul to handle.
I hope
I w
o
n’t faint when I me
e
t her—I’d die from embarrassment when I woke up.

I sleep
, either dreamlessly or without memory of my dreams.

We wake
up,
not by Roc’s alarm clock, but by
the muffled sound of gunshot
s in the distance.
Before I am
fully awake I kn
ow where the sounds emanate
from: the Pen.

I leap
to my feet, reaching the window at the same time as Roc.
My back is aching from sleeping on the hard, stone floor. I’m not used to it.

We huddle
together, gazing across the road an
d through the fence.
The Pen i
s dark and quiet—like bef
ore.
Gunshots once more reach
our ears.
Although the sound i
s stifled, both by walls and
distance, neither Roc nor I have
any doubt as to the origin: a semi-
automatic
weapon.
Countless times we’ve heard
similar sound
s
tremor
through the walls of the palace, a result of army training exercises nearby.

I spot
move
ment along the fence.
I point it out to Roc, and we watch as a dark form creeps
in the
shadows, moving silently toward
a door lea
ding inside.
The figure reaches the door and waits.
A minute passes
without gunshot
s
or movement from the ghost.

The hollow door clangs
open, ringing like a bell across the yard, through the fence, and into our ears.
Two forms spill
from the Pen, momentarily thrust into the glow of a single light illuminat
ing the entranceway.
They move
quickly out of the light, joining the shadow i
n the shadows.
Although they are only
visible for a split-secon
d, a mere wrinkle in time, I know without a doubt who they are—I suddenly feel
dizzy.

Roc seems to recognize that something i
s wrong, and ma
nages
to thrust an arm behind me, cat
ching me just before I collapse.
“Tristan?” he says
.

Thankfully, I do
n’t pass out.
My legs
feel
l
ike rubber and the whole room is spinning, but I hang on to consciousness.
Roc ho
ld
s
me
up until the feeling passes
.

“
It’s her,” I say
.
“We have to go.”
Althou
gh she didn’t look at me, I felt
the warmth of her green eyes hit me, like a blast of hot air
from a furnace.
She’s alive!
Although I’ve been trying to convince myself that she survived the encounter with the big gu
y the day of the parade,
in my heart I
believed
it had ended in tragedy.
I’m not used to things going my way.