Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (16 page)

Sean
felt his fists clench as Ivan walked up to him, his rifle strap resting calmly
on his shoulder. A worn leather coat hung loosely over his small, bony
shoulders. The rest of his clothing was equally as ragged, his thin pants a
crusty mottled mixture of black and brown stains. Dirt and grime was caked on
his hands as well as around the corners of his mouth and ears. His dark eyes
scanned Sean’s face as he thrust his hands into his pockets. He pulled out the
handgun, weighed it for a moment in his hand, then turned to hand it to
Dark-hair. 

Ivan
and Muscles gripped their weapons menacingly as they stepped behind Dark-hair
who stood silently watching. A light wind blew through the street and a few
clouds moved in front of the bright sun hanging overhead.  

After
a few more tense minutes of staring at the five forlorn faces in front of him,
Dark-hair handed his machinegun to Ivan and pulled Sean’s nine millimeter from
the pocket where he’d placed it earlier. He walked slowly over to the thin boy
at the other end of the line, his over-sized boots thudding softly on the
pavement. 

Sean
could feel the boy in the huge, white sweatshirt next to him trembling. He
chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw the kid’s lip quivering
as he bit it, trying to keep in a whimper that finally escaped in a muffled
moan. Sean’s eyes turned to Ivan and Muscles as they looked on the five
helpless children with smug grins on their dirty faces. 

Dark-hair
began walking down the line, pausing for ten or fifteen seconds in front of
each person, looking intently into their eyes. Sean thought for a brief second
that the cool spring wind had picked up as what sounded like a powerful gust
whistled through his ears. But, no – wait. It was the rushing sensation he’d
felt earlier, a source-less sound that filled his ears and mind, like a great
waterfall spilling over a sharp precipice. Although, this time it was more
focused – it seemed to be coming from Dark-hair. 

Colors
began to swirl in front of Sean’s eyes again, rotating like various shades on a
palette wheel. Yet, the colors weren’t exactly in front of his face – he wasn’t
seeing them with his eyes – but, rather, they were in his mind, as if he was
trying to imagine what blue or red looked like. 

Sean
turned his head to watch as Dark-hair stared into Svyeta’s eyes. He was saying
something to her, half smiling. She was no longer crying, but her gaunt cheeks
were red and her shoulders trembling – from cold or fear, Sean couldn’t tell.
As both Sean and Dark-hair stared at Svyeta, Sean could sense a specific color
coalescing around and over her, a mix of pale blue with darker brown staining
the edges. The sensation confused him at first, but then he began to feel
something seeping from the color that was infused with her face. He felt fear. 

Svyeta
was afraid. Suddenly, it made complete sense – Sean’s attention shifted from
the color to the emotion he could feel pouring out of her. It was terrible.
Fear mixed with helplessness and resignation washed over him suddenly and he looked
away quickly, but the sensation didn’t cease. He opened his mouth as if trying
to suck in a breath of fresh air, but the emotion wouldn’t dissipate. More
clouds gathered around the sun, casting the city street in a subdued gray as a
quiet wind blew past the children.

Sean
began slowly turning his head, trying to shake the sensation, the overpowering
emotion that was filling his mind and chest. Dark-hair, handgun gripped calmly
at his side, paused briefly in front of the younger girl before moving on to
the boy in the white sweatshirt. Sean focused on Dark-hair’s face, tracing the
strong lines and thick dark eyebrows that hung over his large brown eyes. Now,
Sean began to see a different color, a deep, deep pink that almost seemed to
seethe and bubble. It filled the space around the tall boy’s head and appeared
to permeate his features. The fear that had been gripping him only moments
before faded as something more calm and pleasant filled his mind – amusement.
Sean could almost see the older boy smiling inwardly as he walked down the line
of terrified youngsters, waving his gun in their faces. He was enjoying this. 

Dark-hair
began muttering a few words to the frightened kid quivering beside him. His
words were soft and calm, but Sean was almost sure he could detect some type of
threat or grim promise underlying the innocent-sounding tone. Sean saw a tear
escape from the corner of the kid’s eye and heard a hiccough squeak through his
trembling lips. 

His
face splitting into a wide smile, Dark-hair placed the muzzle of the handgun
against the scared kid’s forehead. He began to laugh as the younger boy tried
to stammer something, but the words wouldn’t come out through his shaking lips
and he began to sob, tears pouring down his face and a pitiful whine coming up
through his choked throat. 

Sean
felt a pressure building at the base of his skull and the rushing sensation
returned, quietly at first, but then gradually building in strength. He watched
in confusion as the three armed teens laughed at the terrified boy in the white
sweatshirt. The pressure continued to build until his forehead seemed like it
was about to burst. As his face crinkled in pain, the young boy gave up
attempting to answer whatever question had been posed to him and just tried to
clamp his mouth shut over the whimpers that were scrambling up his constricting
throat. 

Just
as Sean thought he was about to sink to his knees again with the intensity of
the weight pressing against his skull from the inside, the boy’s mouth burst
open in a gush of water. Both Sean and Dark-hair thought at first that the kid
was vomiting, but they quickly realized the fluid pouring out of his face was
clear – and it kept coming. Suddenly, the front and back of his pants were
soaked, liquid pouring out over his dirty, worn shoes. 

Dark-hair
stopped laughing and stepped back, his face contorted in surprise, the handgun
raised defensively in front of his face. Two other gun barrels were leveled at
the leaking boy as the other teens pointed their weapons. Water began to pour
out of the boy’s fingertips, coming out in steady streams like from a faucet.
He stared down at his own body in horror as water continued to pour out of his
open mouth, down the front of his pants and onto the street. Sean couldn’t help
feeling an intense sensation of relief as the pressure in his head slowly
drained away. 

A
chuckle started deep in Dark-hair’s chest and all at once exploded from his
face as he doubled over, waving the gun at the frightened children and
half-turning to the two boys behind him. All three were laughing hysterically
as a steady stream of water ran over the pavement, soaking the bottoms of their
boots like a running hose left out on the street. Both the two girls and the
other boy at the opposite end of the line stared at the white sweatshirt boy in
horror as the water continued to pour out of him. 

As
suddenly as it had started, the water ceased – like someone had just turned it
off. A few last dribbles escaped the boy’s lips and fingertips as he continued
to stare at himself in confusion and fright. Finally, it stopped altogether and
a little hiccough snuck out of his mouth. 

The
three other boys continued laughing for several moments before Dark-hair took a
few steps over the wet pavement and patted the kid on his soaked shoulder. He
flung a few drops of water off his hand and turned back to Ivan and Muscles as
the laughter briefly resumed. The scared kid stared haplessly forward, his tear
ducts even having suddenly run dry.   

All
at once Dark-hair stopped laughing and began speaking quickly and forcefully to
the youth, gesturing threateningly with the handgun. He held the muzzle right
against the boy’s forehead and repeated the same phrase a couple times, staring
menacingly into the boy’s terrified face. He’s going to shoot him, Sean
thought. Right here in the street. He’s going to blow his brains out and
there’s nothing I can do about it. 

Suddenly,
Dark-hair stepped back, pointed to the street behind him and shouted “Idi!”

The
soaking youth blinked in confusion as the older boy shouted at him repeatedly.
He glanced at Sean and the others, before taking a few steps forward past
Dark-hair. His feet began to move faster, his wet shoes slapping against the
pavement. He broke into a jog, still glancing over his shoulder, then began to
sprint away as fast as he could. Dark-hair continued to shout after him,
gesturing at his own chest with the handgun. Sean watched as the soaked sleeves
of the long white sweatshirt turned around the corner of a building and
disappeared. 

Dark-hair
turned back to the group and barked out a few orders, gesturing to the
remaining four prisoners. A strong blast of warm air blew into their backs,
stirring the trash lying in the gutters, as the two armed boys came around
behind them and started pushing lightly in the direction of Red Square. 

Sean
began to walk forward as he was prodded in the back with a rifle muzzle. A
large hand gripped him by the shoulder and Dark-hair said something with a
smile as he walked beside Sean. The thirteen-year old looked up in confusion
and shook his head. The teenager repeated himself, his smile fading.

“I
don’t speak Russian – nyet po-russkiy. I’m an American.”

The
older boy stopped him and asked another question. Sean shrugged his shoulders,
then Dark-hair said, “You – American?” 

The
words were slow and heavily accented. Sean assumed that this phrase comprised a
majority of the street youth’s English skills. “Yes. Da.” 

With
the amusement in his dark eyes clearly visible, the boy smiled widely and laughed,
clapping has large hand onto Sean’s shoulder again. He yelled something to the
other Russian kids walking slowly down the street.

Svyeta,
still holding her sister close to her side, looked up and responded to the
dark-haired boy’s question. He then began speaking to her as he gestured toward
Sean. 

Her
face full of sadness and despair, Svyeta turned to Sean and in heavily accented
English said, “He say his name Pyotr. He, his people is Black… I not know how
to say…” She then said a word that sounded like “scorpion”. 

She
continued speaking slowly. “They Black Skorpioniy – Chyorniye Skorpioniy. All
they own this,” she gestured all around her, “part of city. Now, he own us too.
He own you.”

Dark-hair,
or Pyotr, waited until she’d finished, then looked at Sean intently and poked
him in the chest and said one word forcefully. 

Svyeta
translated again, “Remember.”

Sean
stared at the tall, dark-haired boy just a few years older than him. He could
clearly see or at least sense somehow a new color that filled the air around
the boy’s face – black with dark red at the edges. Just as he had with the
other colors, he instantly sensed its meaning: hatred with some kind of intent
to harm. 

The
young, American boy nodded and was prodded back in to line with the other
children as they continued walking back toward Red Square.     

The
thin boards that lined the hallway floor in a basic diagonal fishbone pattern
creaked in protest as Viktor limped slowly toward the kitchen. His left elbow
dragged along the wall, pausing in support every time he placed some of his
weight on his left leg. He was still unable to step normally – the ankle was
still refusing to cooperate and wouldn’t make his foot parallel with the floor
as he lifted it up and moved the leg forward. His right hand clutched at his
pants just above the knee, helping to guide the weak limb into place. The toes
of his left foot touched the floor first, then the heel as he leaned forward,
steadying himself with his left forearm planted against the wall. He applied
pressure on the left foot gingerly, still unsure how much weight it could
take. 

He’d
immediately started trying to use it three days before when he’d discovered
that the cramping and lack of control in his arms had miraculously faded. But,
control of his hands came faster than to his withered left leg. Although any
type of delicate finger movements were still impossible for him, he was able to
grasp things much better than he ever had before as long as he moved slowly and
concentrated. During that first night after he’d gained extra movement in his
limbs, he’d woken up several times to wiggle his fingers and slowly rotate his
wrists. He wanted to keep moving his limbs so that they wouldn’t tighten and
become useless again. And also to make sure that the whole experience hadn’t
been a dream.    

Despite
the slow progress, his leg was coming along nicely, he thought. After all, he
was trying to get it to support his entire weight – something that it had never
done once in his entire fifteen years of life. His hands had been improving,
increasing in strength, and so should his leg, he thought. He’d pulled down an
old anatomy book that he’d found high on the shelf in his room and had been
studying some of the muscles of the body. Viktor thought that he’d pinpointed
all the muscles in his legs, back and hips which were required for basic
walking and had been attempting to concentrate his efforts on building those
slowly. His nose wrinkled instinctively as he passed by his sister’s room. He
hadn’t ventured into either of the other two bedrooms for the past couple of
days – the smell was strong enough in the hallway and he was afraid it was
starting to seep into his own bedroom during the night. After a quick, sideways
glance at the door, he pushed on slowly. 

As
he limped toward the kitchen, he ran a few quick equations in his head and
determined that if his progress continued at the same rate as during the past
three days, then he should be able to achieve fairly normal movement within
another seven days, fifteen hours and thirty-seven minutes. But, what if his
rate of healing increased – maybe doubled? No, he said to himself as he lifted
his left leg carefully, that’s too much to hope for – maybe increase it by just
a factor of 1.5 or so. Within a minute, he’d arrived at the solution, but then
another thought struck him: what if he hit some kind of plateau in his muscle
development, or what if the rate of improvement began to decrease rapidly as he
used his limbs more? He could probably use differentials to figure out a few
scenarios for his healing time. 

A
couple days ago, when he’d been trying to reach the anatomy book on the shelf,
he’d come across one of Tatyana’s old high school calculus textbooks. It was
pretty thick and dusty, so he’d usually just passed it over the thousands of
times that he’d perused the shelf before, but this time it had seemed to almost
jump out at him. He’d opened the large cover and began reading through a few
chapters, skimming mostly since the concepts toward the front were usually just
the basic ones. He’d never been able to do much math in the few years of school
that he’d had, but numbers had always seemed to come naturally to him. Before
he’d realized it, he’d read through most of the text – he’d gone to bed fairly
late that night. And he’d heard his mother’s voice in his head, repeating one
of her favorite phrases, “You read all night and your eyes’ll pop out!” He
smiled to himself at the image of her shaking her pudgy finger at him. 

By
the time he’d reached the kitchen counter, he’d constructed about nine
different scenarios for his projected healing time. As he leaned against the
cabinets, stabilizing himself with sweaty palms on the dull white counter, he
quickly took a weighted average of the nine different times, balancing each
according to its respective degree of likelihood. And he ended up with the same
answer as he originally had with his first calculation – that made him happy. 

Viktor
pulled the cupboard door open and scanned the shelf – empty. The next cupboard
was the same. He shuffled and limped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a
plastic container of rice that he’d saved from yesterday’s lunch. 

His
foot tapped rhythmically against the table leg as he sat, scooping mouthfuls of
cold rice into his mouth. The sun was slowly beginning to sink below the roof
of the apartment building across the street, casting long shadows on the skinny
trees that were just starting to sprout new leaves. 

Suddenly,
Viktor froze, staring at the spoon in his hand. It hung there, in front of his
face, completely still, poised and ready to be scooped into his mouth. All at
once, he willed his hand to do so and the utensil came up, delivering the rice
into his eagerly waiting mouth. Just a few days ago, this simple action was
nearly impossible, he thought. For all my life, up until now, I’ve been a
helpless cripple, Viktor thought as he chewed. But, not now. And never again.
He dipped his spoon into the bowl and took another mouthful. 

Staring
out the window at the setting sun, Viktor knew he was almost out of food – he’d
have to leave the apartment soon, try and buy something at the market. He
thought he remembered one a couple blocks away – it had been so long since he’d
been outside and able to explore his own neighborhood. 

The
last time was probably with Aunt Lydia in the fall. She’d stopped by,
unannounced, and had taken him out for a quick hamburger before his mother got
home. She’d steadied him as he hopped along, crunching the big, burnt orange
leaves under his foot. After she said goodbye at the door, she’d rushed back
down to the street quickly, and waved at him as he watched her from the window,
right before she hurried to the bus stop, afraid that his mother would discover
her. 

Viktor
stared at the scarred, white tabletop, the fork paused halfway out of his
mouth, hanging on his lower lip. He hadn’t thought of Aunt Lydia in several
days. He’d been so worried about his mother and grandmother, then Tatyana, that
he’d almost forgotten her. Or, was that really it? He felt the truth lurking
unacknowledged in the back of his mind, like a gaping mouthed specter waiting
to pounce. No, he hadn’t wanted to think of her for these past few days –
because thinking of her would lead him to the painful, but unavoidable
conclusion that he mostly believed to be true.

The
fork dropped down into the plastic container with a dull clatter. Viktor
continued to stare in thought at the tabletop, rubbing his hands over one
another to increase the circulation. They’d all died – Tatyana, his mother,
grandmother. All within a few days. And everything on the television before the
broadcasts had stopped seemed to indicate that the same thing was happening all
over the city – all over the world. She couldn’t have escaped it, he thought.
Then, he realized that at the same time that he’d been focusing energy on
avoiding thoughts of her for the past few days, he’d secretly been building up
a small reserve of hope that somehow she had survived, found a way to beat
whatever it was and was coming to rescue him. 

That
hope began to drain away as he allowed himself to examine the situation fully,
the frightful events of the past week and a half turning over quickly in his
brain. No, he finally said, she couldn’t have survived – she would have come
already. Or called at least. But, there hadn’t been any phone call. 

There
was one way that he could tell for sure, he thought. He could make it over to
her apartment somehow and see for himself. The thought of walking up to her
door and smelling the smell that now permeated the air around him filled him
with sadness. He wouldn’t be able to go in and look, even if he got there, he
thought. Seeing her like that, the last time he would see her, would be too
much. That’s not how he wanted to remember her. 

As
the weight of this realization began to sink into his mind, Viktor, for the
first time, saw his future stretched out before him. It wasn’t something that
he’d ever thought much about. As he’d grown up, the fact that he was different
from other children and would never be able to live the life that they led or
even that his family members led, had slowly been ingrained in him and had
become a permanent fixture. He’d always assumed, for one thing, that his mother
would take care of him as long as she could and then he’d most likely go to
live with Aunt Lydia or maybe even Tatyana. But, now with all of them gone, the
question of his future arose like a burning road in his mind. He saw it as an
empty highway that stretched forward infinitely, with no turn-offs or
intersections – and no one else there. He was completely and utterly alone in a
world that he’d never understood and probably understood even less now that
most of everyone in the world had died. His head sunk down to his thin hands and
he continued to tap his foot against the table leg as the last light of day
slowly sunk away.