Salamander

Chapter Twenty Five: The Cellar and the Shovel

Chapter Twenty Five

“Lance, what’re you doing?” Mariam asked as we rounded the corner of the cabin, now heading towards the garden.

            “What needs to be done,” he grunted.

            Once we entered the garden, he took an old, rusty shovel and held it in his two hands. “Open the cellar, Alan.”

            “Just tell me what you’re doing,” I said.

            He stopped in front of the wooden door that would lead us to the underground rooms where Byron had restrained the mutants and was working on his cyborgs. “I’m going to finish what he started.”

            I looked at the shovel, suddenly realizing what he was going to do. “Is that such a good idea? The damage he did to those poor people has already been done.”

            Lance shook his head. “I want to make sure that they rest in peace.” He glanced at the cellar door. “Open the damn thing.”

            “Let’s just forget it,” Mariam said. “We should go.”

            “No!” Lance shouted. I had almost expected Mariam to cower back at his outburst, but I was surprised to see her meet his gaze without even flinching.

            Holding her head up high, she said defiantly, “I won’t be talked to that way.”

            Lance’s brows furrowed. “Hard like metal now, Mariam?” He looked at me again, this time the glint of craziness in his eyes. “Open the damn door,” he said in a terrifying, soft voice.

            I took a step towards him so that our noses were almost touching. “No.” I quickly grabbed the shovel out of Lance’s two hands. “We can’t stop Byron from what he’s planning on doing. And for some reason King Algory had decided not to execute him.”

            “He was old,” Lance said crossly. “He was on the brink of death for the past five years.”

            “From what I heard, he was sickly, but his mind didn’t deteriorate.” I handed the shovel to Mariam. “I think he had trust in Byron.”

            “Trust?” Lance looked away as if that word had a new meaning. Maybe it did. For all I knew, trust was the only thing I had relied on for the past couple days. Unfortunately, it had betrayed me.

            “Yes.” I looked down at the cellar, thinking of the mutants and the cyborgs confined in those dank, dark rooms. “Perhaps he believed Byron could create an army. Maybe when Byron was caught and was brought before King Algory for sentencing . . . maybe that’s when the old man explained what his agenda was. And maybe the king wasn’t as close-minded as Byron thought him to be.”

            “If Byron had been set free to create this army, why does he bear resentment towards King Algory, even after he’s been dead?” Lance said skeptically.

            I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

            “But it makes sense why Byron’s last name had changed to his first,” Mariam spoke up. I looked back at her, still surprised by the rebellious soul that had now emerged from within her. “Maybe the king was trying to cover Byron’s real identity so that he could work on this robotic army without civilians knowing who he really was. He could walk in the city, walk with the civilians without having to use the name that was in that newspaper article.”

            Lance tried to snatch the shovel from Mariam, but she pulled it out of his reach. “Give me it.”

            “No,” I said. I stepped back, distancing myself from this crazed kid. “We need to leave, Lance.”

            “We need to end this, Alan.” Lance looked back at the cottage. “We can get rid of Byron.”

            Mariam shook her head. “Stop it. You sound mad.”

            “Maybe I am.” Lance looked at me sidelong. “I know you are, Alan. You killed your father, am I right?”

            My stomach dropped at the sound of someone else saying what I had done. It was different than me saying it to myself, either out loud or in my head. When Lance said it, it made it seem more real than I had initially thought. More real than I could’ve imagined. “Shut up,” I murmured.

            “Were you lying about what you did?” Lance continued.

            “I said shut up.”

            “Is that why you had that dream earlier? About the knife and –”

            Before I could even think, I rammed my entire body into his, knocking both of us into the ground. Dazed and clouded by grief and anger, I began to wail on his face. “Do not talk about my father!” I screamed, each word pronounced with a punch.

            “Alan, stop!” I heard Mariam squeal. But to me, at that moment, her voice was nothing more than a soft whisper.

            Just as I had punched Lance in the face for the tenth time and I had brought right hand up to prepare for another blow, I looked at it. It was the same hand that I had held the knife in – both in the dream and in real life. My hand was just as bloody then as it was now, only this time it was Lance’s blood. I looked down at the boy, half-conscious, eyes closed and gasping for air. His nose was bleeding, both eyes were bruised.

            “Oh no,” I said. I brought my bloody hands to my face and began to weep. “Oh no . . . no no no no no no . . .”

            I could hear Mariam cry behind me, but she kept her distance. I was glad she kept her distance. Who knew what I would’ve done if she had touched me?

            “Lance, I’m sorry.” I bellowed, feeling the heartache that had started when I had been abused, when my mother died, when I  killed my father, when I hurt Lance . . . I felt it all at once, and I cried, harder than I ever had before in my life. “How could I . . . Lance I’m . . .”

            “Get away,” he mumbled through the blood in his mouth. “Get . . .” He coughed and pushed me off of him with little strength. I let him push me, I let myself roll onto the ground. I covered my eyes again and continued to weep, wondering when the pain would end. Wondering when I would just end.