Young Writers Society

CHAPTER FIVE:

(PART ONE OF TWO)

Hjem Elementární

4/4/2014

This chapter has been scrapped, and the only reason I have left it up is to compare it to the re-written version.

Scarlene sighed as she drummed her fingers impatiently on the desktop. Pascal was late.

She slumped back in her chair, twiddling her thumbs anxiously. It was past midnight. For the last half-hour, she had been sitting in Ivanov’s office, waiting for the LOCK team to return. She would steal glances at the clock occasionally, and then proceed to nibbling on her lower lip. She could have sworn someone had jinxed the clock to stop ticking. If not, then that meant that she had looked at the time at least twenty times in the past one minute.

Pathetic, she thought, mentally chastising herself. You’re pathetic.

Scarlene Mowack did not do anxiety, and she couldn't help but feel slightly irritated with herself as she dragged her gaze away from the clock and began to pace around the room instead. Being head of the Hjem’s first-aid department, she was tough. She wasn't ever nervous, or worried. Worrying won’t get you anywhere in life. That was Scarlene’s motto, and always had been since she arrived at the Hjem seven years ago.

But her pride had been caved in by this feeling of uncertainty. She was worried. There was no denying the fact.

He’s never been this late, she thought, frowning. Moving over to the window, she pulled the curtains open slightly, so she could get a better view of outside. The empty London streets stared at her mournfully. She glared right back at the dreary sight, searching for a flash of red hair in the bleakness.

But there was none. Her fists clenched tightly onto the window-pane, her knuckles turning white. She gritted her teeth as she remembered the last time Pascal had been sent on a “rescue mission” as he had so blandly called it. He had returned bruised and battered, and the Tární had been hurt so badly, survival for her was near to impossible. A bunch of Caustics had attacked her, Pascal had said. Scarlene shuddered as she remembered the state the Tární had been in when the LOCK men brought her back. Her pale skin was a crimson flood, and the flesh on her back had been burnt off. Entirely. But that wasn’t what had killed her, Scarlene remembered, tapping her fingers against the window-sill. The girl had been a Haemokinate – she could control blood and its properties. In the end, she had induced her own death by allowing the blood to agglutinate and block her arteries. She died of a heart-attack. It was a pity, because she had been so very young, a few years younger than Scarlene herself.

Hoping fervently that this time the Tární would be brought to the Hjem unharmed, and wondering hazily if Pascal was alright, Scarlene leaned against the window and fell into a restless slumber.

She dreamt of blood, and sirens that screamed in the night.

*

Pascal was breathing deeply, caught in a tangle of bushes that lined the brick-walled exterior of the large house. Wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth, he got to his feet unsteadily. There were scratches on his forearms and face, but he wasn’t bleeding much, thank God. He inspected himself for broken bones, but was immensely relieved to find there weren’t any. That was a miracle in itself, seeing as how he had just been sent flying out of a window that was ten feet off the ground.

‘Curse that savage,’ Pascal muttered to himself. His opponent had been much stronger than he had looked – probably because of the adrenaline inducements that the Caustic soldiers were well-known for. Pascal ought to have shot him when he could. But he had never been much of a killer, and preferred to knock his opponents unconscious instead, letting someone else deal with the actual killing. He regretted his decision now; his ankle hurt like hell.

Limping slightly, Pascal moved towards the front porch. But he couldn’t have taken more than a few steps before the entire street was engulfed in darkness. Pascal knew it wasn’t just a black-out; someone had done it on purpose. Whether they were on his side or on Caustic’s, he didn’t know. Out of habit, he reached for his gun. Feeling his way around the walls, he kept on walking. Suddenly, he made contact with something short and skinny – or was it a somebody?

‘Oof,’ came a familiar-sounding voice.

‘Rufus?’ said Pascal, cautiously, ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘I followed you guys here – hang on.’

There was a clicking sound as Rufus turned on his flashlight. He trained the beam around so he could see Pascal more clearly. His eyebrows shot upwards as he took in his friend’s bloodied figure and the scratches on his face. His dark-red hair was matted with blood and dirt, and there was a large bruise the size of a small hill above his left eye.

‘Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect this,’ said Rufus in a loud whisper, ‘because I did. It’s just like the last time. Aeta told you that you had to learn to kill or you’d meet a Caustic who’d kill you instead.’ He cocked his head to one side and gave Pascal a scrutinizing look. ‘At least it’s not as bad as when you broke your arm or when you were shot in the leg,’ he said, ‘and the fact that your hair is red hides the blood so you can look all intimidating – ’

‘Rufus, as much as I mourn the mutilation of my incredibly handsome face, now is not the time.’ Pascal hissed, his eyes flashing with rage. ‘One of our men just died in there and we couldn’t get the Tární out either. I don’t know where Aeta is but man, I just hope he’s alive. Now if you could just tell me why the hell you’re here and then leave, I’d really appreciate it.’

He was still seething as Rufus smirked in an aggravating fashion and said, ‘I’m not going anywhere. I came to help ‘cause the Prof asked me to.’

‘Ivanov asked you to come here?’ Pascal said incredulously. ‘Why?’

‘That is classified information,’ Rufus said loftily, exaggerating his already British accent.

Pascal frowned. He could tell Rufus was enjoying himself; he didn’t come out on the field much.

‘Fine,’ he said shortly. Then he smiled suddenly, teeth gleaming in an almost cat-like way. ‘I won’t be cleaning up after, though,’ he added. Snatching the flashlight from Rufus, he couldn’t help but laugh silently at the other boy’s surprised expression.

Both boys crept into the house. The sky-painted ceiling was just visible by the light of Rufus' torch, and there was a pool of blood on the floor from where Pascal had seen Jake, one of the volunteers for the mission, die. His body lay there, a lifeless heap on the floor. A bullet straight to the heart, Pascal thought. He’d have to come back for it later. Rufus’ mouth fell open when he saw the body.

‘One of our own,’ Pascal whispered. He swallowed, breathing in deeply.

Focus, he thought. Get the Tární. Find Aeta. Get out alive.

That was his mantra for the night. His life depended on it.

The gunfire had stopped, but Pascal could hear yells and thuds coming from the upper wing. He motioned silently to Rufus, pointing towards his gun and then at him, silently asking him if he had any weapons. Rufus nodded and then pulled a dagger from his belt. He then switched off the flashlight. It took a moment for them to become accustomed to the darkness, and by the moonlight flooding through the window, the two of them made their way up the stairs.

BANG! Another gunshot, followed by several more. Pascal’s heart skipped a beat. He ran up the remaining steps, taking them two at a time, and practically flew into the hall. Two men in red clothing stood there. A black falcon was painted on the back of their shirts.

Caustics, Pascal thought.

One of the men was aiming his rifle at a writhing mass on the floor – the victim of the bullet that had just been fired. It was undoubtedly a LOCK member. His face twisted with a look of immense pain, and then he lay still. Dead.

Pascal felt the rage coursing through him. He crept up behind the two cold-blooded killers and hit the first man on the head using the butt of his gun. Grabbing the other one by the shoulders, Pascal then took his forearms and flipped the man around, lunging at him and kicking him in the stomach as he spun through the air. The man hit the ground with a thump loud enough to be mistaken for a miniature earthquake, while Pascal landed on his feet with nimble grace. He only just caught a flicker of confusion in the man’s eyes before he keeled over, unconscious. Pascal took the gun from his limp grasp and tossed it to Rufus who was standing in a corner, watching. He caught it, and smirked.

‘Impressive.’ he said, ‘Should I clap or would a curtsy do?’

Pascal simply rolled his eyes in response.

‘Just kill them already.’ he said, motioning towards the gun that Rufus was clutching in his hands.

‘Happy to oblige.’ Rufus said smoothly. He fired two shots at the men without batting an eyelash, and then swung the gun around, succeeding only in hitting himself in the face. Pascal couldn't help but let the ghost of a smile flicker across his face as he turned around and walked onwards.

‘Let’s go find that Tární.’ he said, Rufus sprinting to keep up with him as he strode through the halls.

**

END OF PART ONE