Outcasts of the Worlds

  Outcasts of the Worlds

  by Lucas Aubrey Paynter

  Arm in the Wall Books • Burbank, CA

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  OUTCASTS OF THE WORLDS

  Copyright © 2014 by Arm in the Wall Books. All rights reserved.

  Edited by Alissa McGowan

  Cover designed by Travis J. Wright

  Cover lettering by Dean Brown

  Interior design by Richard A. Dueñez

  Published by Arm in the Wall Books

  556 East Palm Avenue, #202

  Burbank, CA 91506

  http://www.outcastsoftheworlds.com

  ISBN 978-0-9906323-1-3

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means – including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods – without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact: lucaspaynter@gmail.com.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Adrift from Earthly Shores

  Chapter One: Easy Exit

  Chapter Two: Rats in the Walls

  Chapter Three: Fresh Wounds

  Chapter Four: New Arrivals

  Chapter Five: Surface Appearances

  Chapter Six: Necessary Sins

  Chapter Seven: Unstable Deception

  Chapter Eight: Shedding Skin

  Chapter Nine: A Crash upon Sacred Spaces

  Chapter Ten: Something Blue

  Chapter Eleven: Useless Persons

  Chapter Twelve: A Kiss of Death

  Chapter Thirteen: Inescapable Shadows

  Chapter Fourteen: The Hunter in the Woods

  Chapter Fifteen: Moments of Clarity

  Chapter Sixteen: Old Vendettas

  Chapter Seventeen: Certain Sacrifices

  Chapter Eighteen: The Living God

  Epilogue: Cycles of Pain

  Acknowledgements

  While this book is the opening culmination of years of thought and ideas, it was the people surrounding it who’ve helped make it the best it could be.

  Thanks then goes out to my editor, Alissa, who helped make the text flow better than I could have alone and taught me a bit about how to go about things along the way. This book would be heavier and clunkier without her.

  More thanks go to Travis, whose artistic talents captured a moment of the strange and surreal landscape. And thanks also to Dean for his title design and lettering, and for working to find the best way to compliment the cover art rather than consume it.

  As much gratitude goes out to everyone else who has taken part along the way and made the process less lonely than it could have been.

  And lastly…

  For my wife, Maggie, who has been there for me as I journeyed through the worlds.

  Prologue: Adrift from Earthly Shores

  With neither warning nor sense, three bodies appeared from empty air, crashing atop one another in a morass of bloody limbs. For several minutes they lay helpless, able to do little more than shiver and breathe. Even so, they had survived, and were the first visitors to the world of Sechal for a greater eon.

  The cusp of dawn approached, and as the light reached where the bodies lay, one among them stirred. Struggling at first, he disentangled himself and let his fellows fall aside. Finding strength, he stood upright—though in dawn’s silhouette he appeared more animal than man.

  Neither tall nor broad, he seemed larger than in truth he was. Woolen patches of fur engorged his forearms, while his clothes bulged in other places. The swell ran up his backside and across his shoulders, blending into the unremarkable brown of his hair. Despite his feral visage—with his crooked, pointed ears and slitten yellow eyes—Flynn was nonetheless human.

  Ignoring the unconscious, labored breathing of his companions, he first checked himself, ensuring that the streaking blood was not his own. Remembering the gunshots that had chased them through the rift, Flynn confirmed that none had tagged him without sparing a thought to the others—knowing already that they had not been so fortunate—before hiking to the cliff’s peak and surveying the land below. As the red sun rose, it revealed a valley corralled by a mountain range—fields of vibrant grasses, tall and rolling in the wind like tides.

  As night’s shadow further receded, he recognized the splendor of an alien world. It hurt to know such a view for what it was and feel nothing. After a lifetime on an Earth choked in dark clouds and blanketed by wastelands, a decent man would have been moved to tears. Yet Flynn could only survey and consider his next moves, though there were few left to make. Largely ignorant as to how he’d come to be there, he had even less understanding of how he might find his way back. If he wished to … if he cared.

  Flynn retraced his steps in warm sands already smoothed by the morning breeze. The two he’d arrived with lay weakened, bleeding pools in his shadow. Sparing a moment for fair contemplation of just what was to be done, he finally loosed a resigned sigh and walked past, leaving them to die. Not bothering to check if either was aware or awake, he paused to let them know, “You shouldn’t have saved me.”

  Chapter One: Easy Exit

  Two days prior…

  Civilis stood monolithic among the remnants of a ruined city—blasted away when humanity sent Earth into a new dark age. Lesser buildings encircled the prison, bridged together by massive concrete fragments that had once littered the streets of the forgotten metropolis. Dwarfed though they were, the outbuildings served as guard towers heralding the obelisk—standing simultaneously as a beacon of hope to those yearning for a return to the old world and as a looming terror for those forged by the new. None could say how Civilis had stood when all around it fell, when its own myriad windows shattered, the arts it contained burned, and the people within it cooked alive.

  Centuries before, the skyscraper had been radiant—sunlight bounding from its sheer walls. Its exterior was now coarse to look upon; the many gaps of its steel frame were now plugged with rocks, imperfectly mortared together. There were openings apparent as the building rose, left not by negligence, but by design. One could, if one dared, press his body through. Jump. Know freedom again, however short lived it may be. There was little hope of gripping the walls and climbing down; many had tried, and most had fallen right away. The tower’s guards sometimes watched and took bets. Any who neared the ground would be shot, though no one ever had. The guards were not allowed to shoot unless necessary. It would have been inhumane.

  Civilis milled with life, over 15,000 prisoners occupying its numerous chambers. Nearly 3,000 guards worked the tower in steady rotation, patrolling the dark halls by lantern light when night fell. At the highest level—where the winds bit and raged and the blackest of clouds choked the sky all around and amidst the maelstrom—within one of the deliberate fractures in the tower’s face stood Flynn, ragged and shaggy and encaged like all the rest. Despite his raw prowess, there was no need to shackle him; the heavy steel door, like every door in the prison tower, would hold him well enough.

  “I could throw myself,” he mused, looking vacantly upon the distant wastelands below. As it stood, this would solve two perceived problems, the more obvious being the matter of imprisonment, a situation to which he was unaccustomed. The second problem was thornier, a matter of accountability: whether it was morally right that he stay in this world or leave it.

  “How many friends do I have here? Whom I’ve put here?” In a stew of self-preservation, cowardice, and sheer resolution to s
uffer, Flynn turned from the crevice, where the cold winds continued to whip and rage.

  “Here I am, in the penthouse suite. It’s what I deserve,” he observed with a wry chuckle. “King of them all.”

  Flynn’s bitter laughter faded as his eyes fell upon the broken toilet on the left side of his tiny cell. There was no sink; the water from the toilet tank was all he—or any of Civilis’s captives, for that matter—was afforded for bathing and drinking alike. The brackish water was freezing to touch, clinging to the fur-like hair on his forearms. A broken mirror hung crookedly above the toilet, its shards red with the flaking blood of a former captive.

  In what remained of its shattered reflection, Flynn had difficulty recognizing himself. He had never been so shabby, so badly in need of a wash and finer clothes. If not for the fading bruises from his recent capture and his imposing, bestial traits, he would be unassuming to look upon. Neither handsome nor homely, the indignities he’d suffered during imprisonment had done him little favor. Despite this, his muscles were strung for the hunt, though it would afford him little good in Civilis. Trapped in her walls, all that he was would wither in time. In his heart he knew that despite whatever wants or hopes he reserved for himself, this fate was fitting and fair.

  *

  Night had fallen and Flynn was making his bed on the slanted bench of his cell when outside noises crept in, capturing his attention.

  “’ey. D’you hear something?” A Civilis guardsman, muffled by the walls.

  Curious, Flynn sat up. His pointed ears found the disturbance quickly: a soft metallic rapping. Two pieces shifting, then falling back into place. Again and again. Flynn envisioned two guards in the hall, attentive as he. Their hearing was inferior, true, but they stood closer to the source. Sharper still, Flynn caught something beneath the metallic rhythm they couldn’t—a voice from the cell adjacent.

  “C’mon … roll …” His only neighbor, a brutish girl of empty bluster and fury. For all her curses, she had never before said something worth pondering. Flynn listened, rapt. Dirt sifted from the cracks in the ceiling as all the tower trembled.

  “I’m checkin’ six-forty-two’s cell. Ready the prod.”

  Anticipating the fervor to come, Flynn moved to put away for the night. A door would kick in, voices overlapping: the girl’s curses, her captors’ commands. Whatever their orders, they would beat her just the same, and through confession or search, find what tool she’d concealed. The status quo would remain unblemished.

  So Flynn was understandably jarred when a single declaration upset the entire formula.

  “Ha! Fuckin’ bingo!”

  “Hey! How did she—?!”

  “Grab her, now!”

  Flynn was startled to his feet by the realization that the girl had just caught her watchers off-guard, the irony not lost on him. Tensing at the sound of gunfire, he quickly counted the sounds and found that each bullet had struck stone. Met with another tremor, Flynn braced himself against the wall. The guards did not remain so steady. The sound of meat and bone collided, and he knew one had been struck out.

  As he recovered his footing, Flynn’s core trembled. In days past, he had walked these halls as a free man, making pacts that had brought other people into Civilis. There was no way out once you were inside. Lifelong imprisonment or a swift death: these were the two options he had thought left to him.

  “Don’t! Stay back!” came a shrill scream.

  “You’ve seen what I can do to metal an’ stone.” The girl’s voice dripped with cold menace. “Try an’ figure what’ll happen to your guts when I do it to you.”

  Those tremors. It was her. Flynn now had an inkling of how she had been able to escape and hold her own against two trained soldiers. The question of why still remained, knowing Civilis would have taken measures to restrain whatever unique talents she possessed.

  “I know you’ve been here longer than me. Saw yer face when they first tossed me in, made real sure to keep it to memory. So I’m askin’: The guy they caught with me, where is he?”

  The seemingly hardened veteran lost his wits, and was babbling incoherently.

  “Listen, fuck-head!” she demanded. “Just give me the floor an’ cell number an’ I’ll leave you wakeful enough to call a medic!”

  As Flynn listened to the girl frantically beat her jailer, trying to get what she wanted before the window closed entirely, a conflict arose within him. Had he accepted his fate too soon, resigned himself to accepting responsibility because there seemed no other way out? It was true that he now bore the burden of regret for the things he had done in his past. Whether it be just the past eight days, another prisoner’s eighty, or still another’s eight hundred, it was not fair that things would turn out this way, that he should have the chance to escape when so many undeserving would remain. But Flynn had always known that life is not fair. Vague promises were quickly made: to turn over a new leaf, not leave as the same man who’d come in. Some part of his conscience sated, Flynn raised a heavy arm and struck the door. Once, then twice, more rapidly than before.

  “Hey …” he called, weakly at first. “Hey!”

  A hard kicking sound, “Stay put,” followed by footsteps just outside his cell. She struck the door in return. “You mind shuttin’ up in there? Yer sourin’ my personal time!”

  It appeared she wouldn’t take just any hard case.

  “Let me out, please,” Flynn’s words quavered. To spoil the chance to escape now would make him feel sour, sick. Fortunately, people like her remained his specialty.

  “Sorry man,” her voice moved away. “I ain’t a charity.”

  Everyone has something they want.

  “I can help you! I’ll do what I can. Just, please …!” Flynn sank to the floor. Although he knew what needed saying, his anguish was genuine still. To endure the next century into old age, only to die imprisoned and infirm? Or to throw himself to his death, and give his jailers one less cell to tend? He’d rather beg. “Please, just … don’t leave me in here.”

  A pause. Her feet had not moved. It was enough.

  “What can you—?”

  “I know this place,” he spoke quickly. “The layout, the systems. If your friend is still here, I can help you find him.”

  Tempted, the girl thought about his offer. Flynn couldn’t give her the chance to say no. He had to give her something more. Something personal.

  “I can’t stay here.” Words formed quickly, inspired by mounting apprehension. “I thought I could, when there was no hope, but … I can’t let my life be meaningless, not now.”

  The next seconds were hollow and long, for there was nothing more to give. Not in earnest, not without giving too much. Flynn wasn’t inclined to sell any more lies. Finally, she sighed. The lock on Flynn’s cell door rattled, shifted, louder than whatever she had done in her own cell. There was no need to be quiet now—better quick and loud.

  The door released and creaked open, and Flynn pushed the weighty thing aside. The girl stood a few steps from his cell door, arms crossed. Her prison rags were cut like his, layered and loose, but also dirty and frayed. They could not conceal a raw toughness about her—even imprisoned, she had not let her muscles languish, and they matched her strong face. Her hair was a sort of bloody red (if in fact there had been actual blood tangled in it, Flynn would have been unsurprised), running just below her shoulders and hanging between her green eyes.

  “Well? You comin’?”

  “I … thanks.” Flynn bowed his head and reiterated, with sincerity, “Thank you.”

  “Forget about it.” She turned her back to him and proceeded down the hall. “Help me find Mack and we’re square. Deal?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Name’s Jean. You?”

  “Flynn.” There was no sign she knew the name. Before acknowledgment could slip past her lips, they heard rapid footsteps closing in.

  “Fuckers,” she muttered, tearing the sleeves from her garb to ease her movements before she advanced, leaving Flynn by his
cell.

  It’s better this way, he decided. She’ll dirty her hands for me. I can see if she’s reliable … or if she’s just going to soften them up for me. Flynn stepped over two broken men, their current state offering some assurance.

  Jean crouched by the corner ahead, her left palm planted on the floor. With her shorn sleeves and from his vantage point, Flynn got a clear look at her forearms, which seemed swollen, subtly larger than they should be. Tensed to fight, she was patient enough not to risk losing her freedom in the process. The disciplined steps drew closer.

  Now that he knew what to expect, Flynn braced himself as a tremor passed through the floor, sourced from Jean’s left hand. The footsteps around the corner faltered and Jean charged, seizing the moment. Flynn rounded the corner in time to see her bring one down, breaking his jaw over her knee. Still grappling with her target, Jean swung him into another guard and sent them both crashing into a heap, dispatching half her opponents in an instant.

  As a guardswoman found her balance, Jean moved in and tore the rifle from her hand before she could use it, tossing it aside. As she stepped back to counter, the woman grabbed the mace that hung from her belt. Jean caught the weapon’s shaft with both hands, pitting her brute strength against her attacker’s technique. It only took a moment for the mace to slip through, grazing and splitting Jean’s lip. Undeterred, Jean charged her attacker in the midsection, hoisting her up and slamming her into a wall. Without giving the guardswoman the chance to produce a meaningful struggle, Jean turned and crashed again into the opposite wall.

  Something broke. Whether it was in the wall or the woman, Flynn didn’t know. But she slumped in Jean’s arms, spilling limp to the floor. Jean picked up the mace that fell from her hand, finding comfort in the weight of it. Its head was coated in dull spikes, and there was little doubt about the damage it could do.