Scarred Knights

They whisper of a place beyond the peaks, where affection is not followed by a public lashing. Where devotion is not a weakness. Where falling in love is a blissful and coveted phenomena.

Here, it is a crime against the State.

I have longed to flee to this alleged land with Gabe. Pleaded until my throat rasped and my tears depleted as he dressed himself in the garb that serves our keepers. He would rather live entrapped in fear than risk the journey. Says if we remain in a place where we know the rules, we will survive. I’d sooner impale myself on the perimeter fence and be pecked at by vultures than be a victim of this emotional sterility any longer. I don’t want to just survive. I want Freedom. I want to hold my husband’s hand as we stroll through the market, and kiss my future children to see them off the school; hug my parents and brothers as we dine each week, and dance with my friends by the lake…I want to love with absolute abandon.

I believed that if I gave Gabe enough time to cogitate, strategize, and rationalize, he would come around. With face swollen and cranberry red, I declared to him: I will be near the southeastern border, behind the school, at dusk. As soon as the horizon swallows the sun, I leave.

I will be here when you change your mind, was his response. And he went to work like the obedient citizen he is.

It reeks of warm rot and urine inside a dumpster in the alley between two school blocks. My eyes sting from the stench, and I bare only small inhales in fear that I will hurl. Concealed in the deep twilight, I really thought he’d come. I have his answer and he has mine. A greater battle lies before me now.

I crack the steel lid, which provides little relief in this humid climate, and peer out. In the distance beyond the alley, the fence is over fifteen feet tall and paraded by a haughty garrison; vile, sadistic sons-of-bitches who beat us out of boredom. It is knitted with hundreds of barbwire crowns swimming with ten-thousand volts of electrical current. Huge lamps spotlight the perimeter at regular intervals along the fifty-kilometre circumference of the desert city. No one stands a chance over it. The few that have tried have ended up charred, to the mirth of the guards.

I wait for one of the chumps to pass and hop out into the night, hastening across the dusty ground. I duck into the wide frame of a flaking teal door and perform another sweep of the ally: all quiet. Peaceful it might be if not for the aura of anxiety that surrounds me. My quivering hand lands on the doorknob, and beg to the universe that Old Man Byron, the school’s janitor, is as incompetent as he was when I attended. The knob rolls, then a click; it’s the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

I packed a flashlight, but do not dare risk the fleeting beam sneaking into the peripheral of a passerby, and instead wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the classroom. In the sleeping building, I feel empowered in my autonomy.

A few years back, a young gal from the 225 Segment disappeared from one day to the next. People assume she died, but a body was never found, so us romantics subscribe to the ending where she escaped. It was not an official report, of course; that would bring shame upon the State. But no barricade can plug the gossip channels of the city. Might I be the next enigma? The one to turn an anomaly into a coincidence that paves the way for the pattern? I find myself infatuated with the sentiment of her, and then remember that that’s forbidden.

With my pupils dilated, I snake around the desks. The rubber soles of my boots muted against the carpet. Adrenaline urges me to move faster, but I remind myself there is no clock on my jailbreak, and if I am caught, I am done for. I take pause at the doorway for several minutes, listening for movement, watching for shifts of lights and shadows. All that greets me is the distant bark of a canine.

Staying low, I cross from carpet to linoleum and pace down the hall of my youth; past the art room where I spent most of my after-school hours, the double doors of the gymnasium where Gabe and I met, the unmistakable dent in my former locker.

I take a left and the junction all the way to the tail-end of the western corridor and reach my destination: the bathroom. They don’t bother locking bathrooms because…why would they? With what I am about to do, they really should.

It’s a solid windowless room. I slip into the second cubicle from the left wall. In quick succession I get out the flashlight, place it between my teeth, dump my backpack, and get to work unscrewing the bolts where the steel toilet is anchored to the wall. I doubt there would be more than the one employee conducting clandestine tasks into the night, but the incident has me shaken and the time for liberties is over. I make quick work of the wrench.

As a Waterline Engineer, Gabe receives blueprints of the city’s water systems and pipe networks. Some of which live on our kitchen table for weeks at a time when he is planning a job. The inspiration to exploit that didn’t come to me until recently. It’s a good thing I have a memory for diagrams. I did not divulge the extent of my plan when I begged him to meet me here. I know he wouldn’t rat me out but… do I?

I secure the removed bolts in my pocket and gently move the toilet away, then throw my bag through the wall and scrape through the tight hole myself. From the darkness within, I slide the toilet back into position, though I cannot bolt it back into place. With any luck, I will be a hundred kilometres beyond the perimeter before anyone reports it.

This section of the pipeline is barely wide enough for an adult to crawl through. According to my husband’s blueprints it was decommissioned years ago, and opens up fifty meters north to the main network. Worming my way through the damp passage, I pray I won’t have to fight with any critters for space. I consider turning my flashlight off. What’s worse: fear of the known, or fear of the unknown? Having lived under such blatant surveillance and tyranny, most would probably answer with ‘known.’ For me, they are too repugnant and small to be worthy of my fear. The only thing of mine they will ever have is wrath.

I wriggle through the darkness of the city’s intestines and discern an aperture in the floor up ahead. My elbows and knees are now patched with wet dirt, but my heavy-duty painting overalls defend against it. I peer down the slanted shaft, unable to make out what awaits me at the bottoms due to the angle. But what choice do I have? I take the flashlight out of my mouth, wiping the dribble from the edge with my sleeve before tucking it into my breast pocket. I position myself over the hole, feet first and with splayed limbs to slow my fall, and tip myself over the edge, plummeting down one subterranean orifice and dropping into another with a splash. Pain shoots up my leg when I land awkward on my ankles. I shake it off.

This cavity is several meters in diameter, carpeted with inches of stagnant water. Stalactites hang from the ceiling like hundreds of golden swords. The air down here surprisingly refreshing compared to the aridity above. Am I imagining it or did I just feel a breeze? I have never felt a chill on my skin before.

With the blueprint in my mind’s eye, I take a right and head east. In about one kilometre, I will pass underneath the perimeter, flipping the bastards off as I do so, and continue until the water treatment plant at the base of the foothills. It journey will take most of the night.

I slosh through the water, finding comfort in its rhythm. Lonely droplets from stalactites echo wet pops near and far. My thoughts wandering in the quiet, suddenly irate at Gabe for not having faith in me. In us. Should I go back? Bolt the toilet back in place and tell him with certainty that there is a way out because I have walked the path myself? I entertain the idea for all of a few seconds before quashing it into the pit inside me where all other guilts reside. What are the chances this works twice? The chances I even make it back without being spotted at this time of night? I cannot risk my freedom for him any more than he would risk his utility for me. That is what a place that arrests intimacy does; makes us all complacent in their robotic world.

I spot something at the far reaches of my flashlight and halt. A blurry contour too far to make out in this dingy chasm. Too big and motionless for a rodent. I think my eyes must be playing tricks and squint to focus, taking tentative steps. Could be some form of monitoring equipment or trash that found its way into the city’s sewer line. It moves. 

I stagger backwards, dizzy with dismay. Another shadow materializes from the dark and falls alongside the first, advancing closer to form two humanoid shapes. 

No. 

With my heart in my throat, I retreat. Crestfallen. The perimeter above so near I feel as though I can hear the pacing of the guards. I underestimated them. Should have predicted that they might patrol down here, too. Or did someone give them reason to? Gabe.

I turn around and leg it. Fighting the water, sloshing all around. If they didn’t see me before, they can certainly hear me now. I can’t tell if they are pursuing over the splashing and erratic heartbeat in my ears. I lose balance and plunge face first into the murky liquid, the flashlight slithers out of my grip and flickers dead under the pool.

I detect them now, approaching at a mockingly slow pace as if enjoying my struggle. My fingertips dig into the slimy wall as I find my feet. Stumbling along, blind, I remove the blade from my belt—a pitiful match for their rifles and grenades and…who am I kidding, their hands will suffice against my fragile neck. But their beer bellies in the school’s tight burrows? There’s no way. 

Hundreds of meters later, my calves burn like they’ve been dunked in a bucket of red ants. The guards’ footfalls have remained a steady distance back. Some time ago their own light source started bleeding through the tunnel, the fringes of which have provided just enough photons for me to see my hands and feet. Through clammy hair sticking to my face, I search for the break in the stalactites from which I emerged. I spot the tube and begin clambering up the curvature of the slippery wall. Fingertips desperately feeling for depressions to pull myself up. Every time I lift a boot it glides back down the arc. It’s no use, the surface is slick as glass. I jump up with all my might to try and catch the edge of the passage, but to no avail. I am shy a whole arms-length of reaching it. 

Slapping water draws closer. Light burns brighter.

I stab the wall with my dagger over and over to find traction, the concrete only serving to shave the tip down to a blunt nib. I jerk over to gauge how far my executioners are, but the beam floods the tunnel with light, so intense it may as well be the sun itself. I relent against the bricks and return to fleeing, searching the blueprint for an exit. I know there to be another shaft underneath the apartment complex up ahead. Maybe it is lower. If I can just get to—

“Give it a rest,” a woman’s voice reverberates over the sound of a gun cocking. Her tone isn't derisive at all. Bored, almost. Just a plain command, which I am in no position to disobey but I do so anyway. If you want me, you’re going to have come get me yourself or shoot me in the back like the honourable cretins you are. My steps are pathetic, barely able to lift my feet above the water, yet my stubborn ass prevails. I only manage a few more meters before one of them jogs up and blocks my path with an unimpressed silence, as if waiting on a child to finish their tantrum. I am drooped in exhaustion, hands on knees holding my weight, bracing for the inevitable manhandling. It doesn’t come.

“Are you alright?” the woman asks.

Am I alright?

I stare at submerged boots, dents and scuffs illuminated by the light from her partner behind me. Is this some kind of sick game they play now? Toying with their prey?

A whisper of her hand falls on my shoulder. I launch up with my blade. There is no aim or skill to my assault, just pure survival instinct, steel searching for flesh. But I am clumsy and uncoordinated, and she simply steps away from my attack with barely any effort at all.

“Eeaasssyyy,” she says with hands half raised in surrender. And I see her in totality for the first time. She is dressed like an ordinary citizen, khaki pants and a sleeveless vest. No discernible weapon. I snap back to check out the partner, shielding my eyes against the light. “We’re not going to hurt you,” she says. The partner takes the hint, drops the light and tucks a compact Glock in the back of her trousers. While taller and more threatening, she follows the orders of lithe redhead still blocking my way. They are obviously not guards, and look far less formidable, though that doesn’t make them any less dangerous.

“I have nothing of value," I say.

The broad one scoffs. “We’re not thieves,” she replies in offence.

“Really? Because you blend in with the scavenging rats down here pretty good.” I have no idea where that came from and it felt unwise as soon as it left my mouth. She lunges at me, the other stops her. 

“That’s enough,” she warns the both of us, then turns to me. “What are you doing down here?”

I leave the question hanging. I don’t trust them.

“You said you aren’t going to hurt me,” I say eventually.

“Things change,” the large one booms.

The redhead scolds her. “We are not going to hurt you,” she reiterates.

“So can I leave?”

To my surprise, and to her sidekick’s, she steps aside. I stand firm, convinced it’s some kind of trick. “I’ll help you.” She takes off to stand under the pipe. “You were going up here, right?” She intertwines her fingers, offering me a boost.

“Leona!” The big one barks and moves to join her. “We cannot let her go. She’ll alert the guards.”

“Please. She’s scared as a mouse in a snake pit.”

“I’m not scared,” I snap. But that name—Leona…Leona. It rings a bell. The girl presumed dead. I never saw a picture of her, but she matches the description, though a tad rougher around the edges. “Leona Damarii?”

Their eyes flick to one another, wary. “Do we know each other?”

“No.” But a fantasy I crafted starring you is the entire reason I am here. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Leona replies, obviously. “But I am a ghost.” Scrutinizing me like she’s solving a puzzle: “You were trying to escape,” she realizes. 

I don’t reply, my lack of denial response enough.

She considers for a moment, treading back toward me. “What if I offered you something better?” 

“What could be better than getting out of this hellhole?”

“Burning it to the ground,” she contends with a fire in her eyes. “This is our city, not theirs. And it wasn’t always like this. From its ashes we will rebuild, and we will return love to it once more. Join us.”

I spare a glance at the tall one, who clearly doesn’t like the idea but offers no objection. So this is some kind of underground revolt? My gaze falls into the depths of the tunnel. The path to freedom laid out in front of me. My options are to risk death journeying through an unforgiving desert based on a rumour of a place that could be nothing more than chimera, or join a group of renegades declaring insurgency. To be honest, she had me at ‘Burning it to the ground,’ but I feint scepticism and consideration so as not to seem too eager. “I assume there’s more of you?”