Alcatraz versus the Evil Librarians (14 page)

She dug in the wallet for a moment. “Nothing useful in
here,” she noted. “Except maybe this.” She pulled out a small card.

“A library card?” I asked.

“What else?” she said. I took it from her fingers, turning it over.

“Hey, they’re gone,” Sing said. He was peeking into the room beside the dungeon, the one where Grandpa Smedry, Ms. Fletcher, and the Dark Oculator had gone.

Bastille and I joined him. The room was indeed empty, except for our possessions, which had been carefully set out on a table.

“Thank the First Sands,” Bastille said with relief, tossing aside the guard’s sword in favor of her handbag. “I was worried that I’d be stuck with those common weapons. I’d almost rather have had some guns.”

“Now, that’s not very nice,” Sing said, waddling forward to inspect his guns, which sat on the table beside the gym bag.

I joined the two of them at the table as Bastille replaced her silver jacket. “There, Smedry,” she said. My three pairs of glasses sat on the table. I grabbed the Oculator’s Lenses eagerly, slipping them on.

Of course, nothing really
changed
. And yet, it did. Even though I wasn’t used to wearing glasses, I found myself comforted to feel their weight on my face. I grabbed the other two pairs, the Firebringer’s Lenses still inside their small pouch.

“We
have
to move quickly,” Bastille said.

Sing nodded, checking the clip on a handgun. He tucked several uzis into the front of his kimono belt, threw on four separate handgun holsters, then strapped the shotgun onto his back. He soon looked like some bizarre fat Rambo samurai.

“We have to fin
d
the room where they took your grandfather,” Bastille said.

“No problem,” I said, slipping off my Oculator’s Lenses, the
n
putting on the Tracker’s Lenses. Though Blackburn’s footprints had disappeared, Grandpa Smedry’s prints blazed a fiery white, still present. They led out the door on the far side of the room. Ms. Fletcher’s diverged from them, heading in a different direction.

We’ll have to worry about her later,
I thought, nodding toward the other two. Sing slung the gym bag over his shoulder – it was still filled with ammunition – and we set off, moving quickly out after Grandpa Smedry’s footprints.

And so, I managed to escape from my first dungeon. Determination can actually take you quite far – though, admittedly, you sometimes have to rely on the thirteen-year-old girl to knock out the guards.

You’re very clever. You noticed a problem.

In the last chapter, Sing, Bastille, and I escaped from prison, then immediately rushed off to save Grandpa Smedry. But, of course, Grandpa Smedry was being tortured by the very same man who had captured Sing and Bastille and me in the first place.

That meant we were in vaguely the same position as before. How did we intend to defeat a master Oculator – a dark, powerful man with more experience than all of us combined? Well, the answer is simple.

While imprisoned, we had gained a newfound wisdom. We came to a greater understanding of the world around us and of our place in it. We gained insight regarding our…

Oh, all right. None of us paused to think about what we were doing. In our defense, we were a little bit flustered at the time. Plus, two of us were Smedrys.

That ought to explain it.

“This way,” I said, pointing down another castlelike corridor, following Grandpa Smedry’s footprints. And as we ran, something occurred to me. (No, not the fact that we were running after the man who had so easily captured us previously. Something else.)

“These corridors look familiar,” I said.

“That’s because
all
the corridors in this place look the same,” Bastille said.

“No,” I said. “It’s not just that. That lantern bracket looks like a cantaloupe.”

“They’re all designed to look like one fruit or another,” Bastille said.

“And we’ve passed this one before,” I said.

“You think we’re going in circles?” Bastille asked.

“No,” I said. “I think we passed it while chasing down Blackburn that first time. That’s the lantern I
saw
that made me ask you about electric lights. That means – “

Sing tripped.

I stood for just a brief moment. Then I dove for the
ground. Sing didn’t even try to keep his balance, and he toppled like a felled tree. Bastille also threw herself down with a vengeance, as if determined to get to the floor first. All three of us hit, dropping as fast as a group of pathological martyrs at a grenade testing ground.

Nothing happened.

“Well?” I asked, glancing around.

“I don’t see anything,” Bastille whispered. “Sing?”

“I think I bruised something,” he muttered, rubbing his side. “One of these pistols jammed me in the tummy!”

I snorted quietly. “Be glad it didn’t go off. Now, why did you trip?”

“Because my foot hit something,” Sing said. “That’s usually how it works, Alcatraz.”

“But there was nothing in this hallway to trip on!” I said. “The floor is perfectly level.”

Sing nodded. “You have to have a real Talent to trip like I do.”

“Which returns us to my original question,” I said. “Is there a reason why we all had to hit the deck like that? This floor isn’t very comfortable.”

“Floors rarely are,” Sing said.

“Hush!” Bastille said, scanning the corridor. “I thought I heard something.”

We fell silent for a moment. Finally, Sing shrugged. “Sometimes a trip is just a trip, I guess. Maybe I – “

The wall exploded.

It
really
exploded. Rubble flew across the corridor, bits of shattered rock spraying against the wall just above me. I cried out, covering my head with my arms as chips and pebbles showered down.

The explosion opened up a large section in the wall to my left. I could see through the opening to where a hulking shadow stood in the clearing dust.

“An Alivened!” Bastille yelled, scrambling up.

I stood, bits of broken stone tumbling off my clothing. The creature obviously wasn’t human. It was misshapen – its arms were far too wide and long, and they jutted out of the body in a threatening posture. In a way, the upper half of its body looked like an enormous “M,” though I had rarely seen a letter of the alphabet look quite so dangerous.

As the dust settled, I could see that the thing was pale white, with patterns of gray and black peppering its wrinkled skin. In fact, it looked like…

“Paper?” I asked. “That think is made of wadded-up pieces of paper?”

Bastille cursed, then grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me down the corridor. “Run!” she said.

The urgency in her voice made me obey, and I took off. Sing ran behind, and Bastille backed away from the broken wall, looking on warily as the lumbering paper monster pulled its way through the hole and into the corridor.

“Bastille!” I yelled.

“Come on lad!” Sing said from beside me. “Regular Aliveneds are bad enough – but a Codexian… well, they’re the most power of the lot.”

“But Bastille!”

“She’ll follow, lad. She’s just giving us a head start!”

I let myself get pulled along. However, I watched over my shoulder as I ran, keeping an eye on Bastille. She ducked a few swings from the massive creature. Then finally, she turned and began to run.

Fast.

You Hushlanders likely have never seen a Knight of Crystallia use her abilities to her fullest potential. People like Bastille spend years practicing inside of their city kingdom, training their bodies, bonding to their swords, learning to use Warrior’s Lenses, and finally being implanted with a certain magical crystal. (Though, again, the Free Kingdomers consider this to be technology, rather than magic.) Only the best trainees are given the title of knight. To this day, Bastille holds the record for attaining the rank at the youngest age.

Regardless, all of this training and special preparation means that when Crystins want to run, they can really
run
. I was shocked as I saw Bastille take off after us, dashing with a speed that would have made any Olympic sprinter give up and become an accountant.

Sing yelled suddenly, lurching to a halt. I, unfortunately, was following right behind him, and, as I turned, I was met by a chestful of Mokian posterior. Sing wasn’t a Crystin, but he was wearing Warrior’s Lenses, which probably helped him keep his balance as I bounced of
f
of him and fell back into the hallway.

“Sing?” I said. “What –“

The large anthropologist reached to his waist, pulling out a pair of handguns. And then – with the flair of a man who had watched too many action movies – he began
to unload
them at something farther down the corridor. I twisted to the side and was met by the sight of another Alivened – also made completely from wadded-up pieces of paper – lumbering down the hallway in front of us.

Sing’s guns had little effect on the creature. Bits of paper flipped into the air as the bullets tore through the Alivened’s body. Each impact seemed to slow it a bit, but it still continued to move toward Sing at an unsteady pace.

Bastille Pulled up beside me. “Shattered Glass!” she cursed, turning. The Alivened behind us was quickly approaching. “You’d better do something, Smedry,” she said, whipping her handbag off her shoulder. “I don’t know if I can handle these things on my own.”

With that, she reached into the purse and grabbed something inside. She whipped her hand out, throwing the bag aside as she drew forth a massive crystalline sword.

I blinked. Yes, the thing Bastille had pulled from her purse was, indeed, a sword. It was nearly as tall as Bastille was, and it glittered in the lantern light, refracting a spray of rainbow colors across the corridor.

The handbag, of course, couldn’t have held something so long. However, if the pulling of a s
word from a handbag is the thing
in this story that stops you, the
n
you likely need therapy. I could recommend a good psychologist. Of course, he’s Librarian controlled. They all are.

It’s a union thing.

Bastille jumped forward, her sword glistening as she charged the Alivened. It swung at her, and she rolled, just barely ducking beneath its massive arm. Then she sliced, shearing the thing’s arm completely free.

The arm fell off, its wrinkled pates suddenly straightening and bursting into the air – like those of a book that had suddenly had its binding torn free. They fluttered as they fell. The Alivened, however, didn’t seem to mind the missing limb – and I soon saw why. The lumps of paper in its body surged forward, forming a new arm to replace the one that Bastille had cut free.

I finally shook myself from my daze, scrambling to me feet.
Behind me, Sing pulled out twin uzis. He knelt, holding the weapons with meaty hands, and automatic weapon fire echoed in the corridor. His Alivened paused from the shock, a flurry of paper scraps exploding from its body. It stumbled for a moment, then continued on despite the rain of bullets.

“Alcatraz!” Sing yelled over the gunfire. “Do something!”

I ran to the side of the corridor, grabbing a lantern off the wall. The cantaloupe-shaped holder broke free easily beneath my Talent, and I turned, hurling it at Sing’s Alivened as Sing ran out of bullets.

The lantern crashed into the Alivened, then bounce
d
free. The creature did not catch on fire.

“Not like that!” Sing said, reloading his uzis. “Nobody would build an Alivened out of paper without also making it resistant to a little fire!”

Sing raised the uzis and fired another spray of bullets. The thing slowed but pressed on, continuing its inevitable march.

Now, if you are ever writing a story such as this, you should know something. Never interrupt the flow of a good action scene by injecting needless explanations. I did this once, in Chapter Fourteen of an otherwise very exciting story. I regret it to this day.

Also, if you are ever attacked by unstoppable monsters created entirely from bad romance novels, you should do exactly what I did: Quickly reach into your pocket and pull free your Firebringer’s Lenses.

Resistant to a little fire, eh?
I thought, yanking open the velvet pouch.
What about a
lot
of fire?!

I reached into the pouch with desperate fingers, whipping out the Lenses – yet, as before, my touch was too unpracticed, and I was too powerful for my own good. The Lenses activated as soon as I touched them.

Then
began
to glow dangerously.

“Gak!” I said. I tried to get the Lenses turned around. However, I fumbled, spinning the Lenses so the
y
pointed backward at me instead.

At that moment, my Talent proactively broke the spectacles’ frames. Both Lenses fell to the ground, one shattering as it hit the stones, the other bouncing away and falling facedown
. It fired,
blasting
a stream of concentrated light into the stones beneath it.

“Alcatraz!” Si
ng said desperately as his uzis ran out of bullets again. He dropped them, reaching over his shoulder to pull out the shotgun. He fired it with a loud boom. The Alivened’s chest exploded with a burst of paper, spraying confetti across the corridor.

The creature stumbled
, n
early falling as Sing hit it again. However, it righted itself and continued to walk toward him.

I reached for the intact Firebringer’s Lens, but shied back from the heat. The Lens itself wasn’t hot, of course – that would make it fairly difficult to wear on the face. However, it was superheating the stones around it, and I couldn’t get close.

I turned urgently to check on Bastille, and I was just in time to see her ram her crystal sword directly into her opponent’s chest. The Alivened, however, slammed its bulky arm into her, tossing her backward. The sword remained jutting ineffectively from its chest, and Bastille crashed into the stone wall of the corridor, crumpling.

“Bastille!” I shouted.

She did not move. The creature loomed over her.

Now, as I’ve tried to explain, I wasn’t a particularly brave boy. But it has been my experience that doing something brave is much like saying something stupid.

You rarely plan on it happening.

I charged the Alivened monster. It turned toward me, stepping away from Bastille, and raised its arm to swing. I somehow managed to duck the blow. Stumbling, I reached up and grabbed the sword in the creature’s chest. I pulled it free.

Or, rather, I pulled the hilt free.

I stumbled back, raising the hilt to swing before I realized that the crystal blade was still sticking in the monster’s chest.

Behind me, Sing’s shotgun began to click, out of ammunition.

I lowered my hand, staring at the hilt. My Talent, unpredictable as always, had broken the sword. I stood for a long moment – far longer, undoubtedly, that I should have in those circumstances. I gripped the broken hilt.

And began to grow angry.

All my life, my Talent had ruled me. I’d pretended to go along with it, pretended that I was the
one in control, but that had been a sham. I’d purposely driven my foster families away because I’d know
n
that sooner or later, the Talent would do it for me – no matter what I wanted.