Before Another War

Chapter Seven

It was early morning when Zorion arrived. He found himself in a shopping centre staring at the clothes with complete and utter fascination. He'd never seen anything like this before. Shop after shop full of clothes. Jackets, jeans, and jeggings, and that was just the J's. And the light! It was so clear up here. He was used to the squinting in the dark, but now he was forced to hold his hand up to block out the burning sun. 

Zorion wandered around, unsure where to start. A pink knitted jumper caught his eye. Do I just take it?  Underground, you didn't need money. The government provided you with exactly what you needed — as long as you did your job. He had no clue how anything worked here.

A lady to his right gave him a nasty look and Zorion realised he didn't quite fit in. His clothes were ragged and dirty, like every miner's, and his pale skin was covered in a thick layer of dust and muck. His face didn't help, rugged and scraggy from years of use. He needed to get cleaned up, and quick. He knew to play it safe, keep himself discreet. So he didn't risk taking the jumper. Which, as Zorion didn't yet realise, would have gotten him in a fair bit of trouble with the police. 

Trying to ignore the funny looks people gave him, he rejoiced as he explored the rest of the department store. Zorion didn't know where he was going, but he knew he'd find her eventually. After all, how big could this place be? 

He was astounded as the shop changed from selling clothes to makeup to kitchens to vacuums. Although, he couldn't figure out what the vacuums did. To him, they looked like a mining tool. They must be. Maybe it removes dust? Or maybe there's drill hidden in the bottom? Zorion kneeled down, narrowing his eyes before someone cleared their throat behind him. 

He jumped up and spun around to face his attacker. To his surprise, it was a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who had his hair slicked over sideways to hide a bald patch.

'Are you looking to buy?' He asked.

The man was perfectly polite, but there was something in his tone that Zorion didn't like. Thinking back to his old English classes, he shook his head. It was always better to give a non-verbal answer, he remembered than a verbal one. His accent would quickly give him away. 

The pudgy man grunted at him and trudged away. Feeling blessed to have had such a lucky escape, Zorion promptly continued on his way. Soon enough, he made it out of the store and the exit took him into the main atrium of the shopping centre. There were dozens of things he hadn't seen before.  Underground, there was so little space, yet, up here, people were greedy with it. 

Zorion glanced around for an exit. However, the atrium was too crowded to see further than a few metres. He continued walking, coming across a shop which confused him greatly. It was full of tiny, strangely coloured boxes. Some of them were placed in ornate glass containers and the others were left to stand bare. Zorion recognised them vaguely. He'd seen them before, a long time ago, on an old TV set that his brother had happened to 'find' on his way home. They didn't get to keep it for long before the officials found out. He didn't see his brother again after that. 

Taking a step back, Zorion tried to read the sign. Squinting, and muttering under his breath, he figured out the letters.

'Yan...kee...Candle,' he managed, not sure what the words meant. Zorion could understand English perfectly. However, reading it, and figuring out what the words were, eluded him. He'd always been dead last at school for English, and everything else, for that matter. Luckily, one of his mining pals had offered to teach him. Markel hadn't been able to read well either, but he could speak it brilliantly.

Zorion wandered past another clothing store. The fashion here was odd too. Most of his clothes had been made from a cotton-like plant that grew underground with the help of the Egia. And it wasn't just the cotton plants — to survive down there, everything needed the Egia. It was their sun. And now it was gone... and it was all his fault.

Searching for the exit, he stumbled upon something marvellous. A TV shop. It was amazing to see so much of what was so valuable, so rare, just lying in front of him. Zorion raced inside, forgetting his situation. He stood in the centre on the polished linoleum, transfixed, and let the sounds wash over him. One or two employees gave each other concerned looks but didn't approach, instead deciding to call security if things got out of hand. 

Amazed, Zorion rushed from TV to TV. His brain overwhelmed as if was going to burst as the seams. Then, something caught his eye. On the biggest screen in the store was a man in a brown hat. Zorion recognised him instantly from the tales his father used to tell him. A cowboy. 

Fascinated, he headed straight for it, putting his eyes so close to the screen that they became sore with the strain. 

'You think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?' A boy, also wearing a cowboy hat, asked. Butch turned to him with a grim look on his face. 

'Kid,' he said. 'There's something I ought to tell you. I never shot anybody before.'

As Zorion continued to watch, his face almost pressed against the screen, the manager decided enough was enough and he picked up the phone to security. His behaviour was putting off the other customers. 

Still, Zorion didn't notice what was happening around him. Instead, he found himself with an idea. If I'm going to fit in here, I've got to look like one of them. Zorion wanted to be like this 'Butch' character. Cool, calm, collected. That'll be my name, he thought, Butch. Just as he began to think about the clothes, a firmed hand was placed on his shoulder. 

'Sir, would you like to come with me?'

Stunned, Zorion turned around and gazed up at the security guard. What do I do? What do I do? He began to panic. 

'Sir? Have you got a name?'

He'd been stupid. If they caught him now, it wouldn't take them long to find Nadia.

'Butch,' he mumbled, staring down at the floor.

'What's your real name? I'm not stupid, I know what-'

Butch shoved past him, making up his mind. I'm not getting caught. Not yet. He bolted towards the door, his peeling leather shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Assuming Butch had stolen something, the guard ran after him, raising the alarm. 

Butch found himself being chased through the centre. He crashed into people and stands, muttering half-apologies and tearing off. His beaten lungs were no good for running, even in the clean air of the surface. But he didn't stop. 

As the shouts continued behind him, Butch spotted the way out. He rushed outside, finding himself in the open air. Luckily, all of his hard work in the mines had made him fit. And, despite his middle-age and broken lungs, Butch had little trouble losing the guards as he raced along the high street. 

As he bolted past, shoppers weighed down by heavy bags turned to stare. Things like this didn't happen every day.

 Butch was distracted when he noticed the huge tree stood in the middle of the street. He was stunned to see it so healthy even in winter. At the bottom, a dozen little elves holding parcels danced in a circle. What nonsense. He wanted to stop and figure out the bizarre tradition, but there was no time for sightseeing. 

Swiftly, Butch dived into a shop and gave the guards the slip. He watched from the dirty window as they rushed past.

To be safe, he waited for a while in a quiet corner of the store. The shop was so big, it was easy enough to hide in. Then, he decided it was time to get some clothes.