The Lifeless Light: A Tale from Dema

Chapter One: The Escape

I dashed through the tranquil streets of Dema in a panic as light vanished from the sky. The neon lights scattered around the city weren't enough to clearly illuminate the endless maze of grey hexagonal pavers before me.

Slowing down to walk through patches of darkness, I squinted at the dull concrete apartments to either side of me—hoping to see a landmark or signal indicating exactly where I was in the city. My heart pounded as I caught my erratic breath. In an overwhelmed state, I had run from the towers without acknowledging the direction I was heading.

For once in my life, I had no plan. Even in my failed attempt to escape Dema one month ago, I was more prepared than this.

I'd never done something so brash, but after the horrors I saw, did I really have a choice?

There was only one option left: If I couldn't remain in the city, I needed to venture out one final time.

This time, I couldn't fail.

I was a spot of red on the Bishops' intricate black-inked calligraphy—a nuisance distracting them from their sacred traditions.

After all I had done, I would pay dearly if they caught me.

I knew the eastern passage to Trench still remained guarded at this time of evening. The streets were hollow and vacant since all had gathered for the Assemblage—which had only begun.

My stomach felt uneasy. There was no fool-proof way of leaving the city.

Had this sudden anger been in vain?

I felt lost in a labyrinth of uniform streets, guided only by chips and scratches in some of the buildings' walls. Peering ahead, I stopped at the intersection of two streets. Nighttime had fallen and my surroundings were even harder to see.

The streets looked so different when running for your life. For the sake of my fading chances, I longed to spot a familiar sight more than ever.

I stopped in my tracks. An unusual sound reverberated to my left, at least a few blocks over.

It sounded like someone repeatedly hitting a metal can, or perhaps an object with a fuller sound. It formed a rhythm.

Music was an infraction of Vialism. Who would dare create such a noise in Dema?

Yet, as someone who also betrayed the sacred customs of the law, I was intrigued.

I followed the noise as its distinct beat grew louder with every street I passed. It was my most reliable guide since fleeing the towers.

I drew close enough for the sound to vibrate my chest. Then it stopped.

The sudden silence felt like someone snatching your lantern in the middle of a dark cave—the robbery of your only comfort and peace.

I franticly searched around, darting down streets and surveying for any sign of the noise-makers.

Then I saw them—just a glimpse at first.

A warm light flickered in the distance to my right: torchlight. Who would ignite a torch in the middle of the city? It was too primitive—too active for this time of night. Indeed, these people possessed no regard for our customs.

I approached slowly. The light grew stronger. I heard voices—strong, authoritative tones. It was not one individual, but many. Nearly a dozen. I peeked around the corner of a building to observe them.

Each figure donned earth-toned jackets and sturdy leather boots, indicative of traveling rough terrain. Accents of yellow tape marked their garments—an obvious symbol of brotherhood amongst them. They were busy packing up their equipment and instruments into various cloth and burlap travel sacks.