Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2)

  Harrison waits for him to finish, equally relaxed.

  “You’re either courageous as hell, or a complete moron,” Simon says, turning off the tap and drying his hands on a towel. Scars interlace across his chest. At least one of them looks like an old bullet wound, marring a stretch of skin that’s all muscle. He’s taken a beating in his life—that much is clear. But Harrison suspects he’s dished out as much as he’s received.

  “Oh yeah?” Harrison says. “Why is that? Because I went outside to save some girl?”

  A smile dances on the guard’s lips. “No. That was nothing compared to coming alone into a room with me,” he says.

  Harrison grimaces inwardly but doesn’t let it reach his face. This was probably a mistake, albeit a necessary one. “I came here to apologize,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “For kicking your ass.”

  “You little punk,” Simon says, taking a step forward, his hands tightening into fists.

  Harrison puts both hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  Simon stops, although Harrison can tell he doesn’t want to. The guard’s muscles are like coiled springs, tight against his skin. “Your words won’t save you from what you’ve got coming,” Simon says.

  “I know,” Harrison says, dropping his hands to his sides. “I wanted to get you alone so you could get your revenge.” I must be crazy, he thinks to himself. Simon’s got at least forty pounds on him.

  The guard laces his fingers together and pushes them outward. All ten knuckles seem to crack at once, a sickening crackle of shifting joints. But that doesn’t scare Harrison nearly as much as Simon’s grin. Like a Bengal tiger. No, this smile has less warmth than a tiger’s would.

  “That clinches it. You’re a damn fool,” Simon says.

  “Just make it quick,” Harrison says, gritting his teeth and firming up his jaw.

  “How do you want it?”

  “Your choice.”

  Simon steps forward, raises a fist, pulls it back slowly, winding up. Like a hoverball keeper preparing to chuck the ball back onto the field. Harrison closes his eyes and waits for the blow.

  One second, two. Three. Harrison squints, wondering what’s taking so long. Simon is still standing there, but his fist is no longer raised. Could he really be this lucky? Could his spoken apology have helped him avoid a more painful punishment? His eyes open the rest of the way.

  That’s when Simon head butts him and everything goes dark.

  ~~~

  Harrison wakes up on the bathroom floor with a wicked headache. Simon is gone, having laid Harrison on his back with his arms crossed over his chest like a dead person. The message is clear: Mess with me again and you’re a dead man.

  Fair enough, Harrison thinks, dragging himself to his feet. He sways, the room spinning. Before he can topple over, he grabs one of the sinks, hugging it, feeling nauseous and disoriented. Despite the pain and dizziness washing over him, he has to respect Simon’s style. An eye for an eye; a head butt for a head butt. And he even spared Harrison’s nose, not breaking it the way he had Simon’s. A small kindness, but a kindness all the same. He’ll have to thank him the next time he sees him. Or not. Might be better not to remind him or he might finish the job.

  As he lifts his chin to look in the mirror, he wonders what time it is. For all he knows, hours might have passed with him unconscious on the floor. Or days. Down in this dungeon, time has no meaning.

  Which is why Harrison couldn’t keep away from the Portal, even if it was just to get a glimpse of the outside world. Which is why he ended up saving Destiny’s life. Which is why he’s got a massive headache now. A vicious cycle of torment and satisfaction.

  Ugh. He shouldn’t have looked in the mirror. His forehead is a mottled mix of purple and black and blue, an asymmetrical swollen blob of color.

  His mouth is dry, his throat dryer. Clutching the sink with one hand, he uses the other to turn on the tap, cupping his hand to bring mouthful after mouthful of water to his lips, until he’s gasping for breath.

  He feels exhausted, like he could curl up on the floor and sleep some more. “No,” he says aloud. “Enough sleep. I need a drink.” He doesn’t mean more water.

  Tentatively, he steps away from the sink, his hands out like he’s balancing on his hoverboard. He staggers to the doorway and out into the corridor beyond. Although it’s impossible to tell, it feels late. Either late in one day or early in the next. The passageway is deserted. To find Simon he had to go all the way down to level minus-sixteen—where the guards’ quarters are.

  Using the walls to keep his balance, he makes his way to the lifter, which he rides up to level minus-ten. The Lifer club. Dark. Surely he’ll be able to get something to take the pain away there.

  When the lifter door opens, he can hear the slash of an electronic beat. It cuts into his skull, worsening the headache. He clutches his forehead with one hand, following the sound. An open door at the end of the corridor is flashing with multi-colored lights that seem to change with the beat of the music.

  The world inside doesn’t seem real, and for a moment he forgets about the hammer-crunch of pain slamming inside his head. In the darkness, long cylinders of purple lights curve along the ceiling and walls in twisting, turning patterns. Black lights. Hence the name of the club, Harrison thinks. The various colors he saw through the doorway are moving and writhing, and he realizes they’re attached to people. Dancers, bobbing and jumping and spinning in time with the music. The colors are streaked on their clothes and skin with some kind of special paint that shines brilliantly under the black lights. The effect is hypnotic and alluring. Mesmerizing.

  “Have a drink,” a voice says from beside him.

  He turns, feeling the room spin, both because of the lights and his pounding headache. Check stands next to him, offering him a tall thin glass of a glowing blue liquid. “You look like you could use one,” Check adds.

  “Do I look that bad?” Harrison asks, gratefully accepting the drink and taking a quick sip. The drink is as cold as ice and absolutely delicious, a mixture of something spicy and something sweet.

  “Worse,” Check says. “Simon?”

  Harrison nods. He doesn’t explain that he offered himself up; it would only make him sound stupid or crazy or both.

  “You probably deserved it,” Check says.

  “Probably,” Harrison admits, scanning the crowd for other familiar faces. “Benson here?”

  “Nope.”

  “His gir—I mean, Luce?”

  “Nope.”

  “That Slip girl—Destiny?”

  “She’s with them, I think,” Check says.

  “Party poopers.”

  “Pretty much,” Check says.

  Continuing to check out the crowd, Harrison realizes that many of the partyers are young, teenagers like them. “Why do they let us do this?” he asks.

  “Do what?”

  “I don’t know—drink I guess. Have fun. Half the people here are underage.”

  Check nods. “The people here have been through a lot, and Jarrod expects them to do some crazy stuff for him. Suicide bombings, undercover missions, assassinations. I guess he realizes that people need to blow off steam no matter what their age.”

  Harrison’s not sure how to respond to that, but he doesn’t have to because two familiar forms with fluorescent tribal-like markings on their faces bob and weave toward them. Great, he thinks. I just got here and there’s already going to be trouble.

  Rod and Gonzo stop dead when they see Harrison, their bodies going rigid. “What’s he doing here?” Rod asks.

  “C’mon, guys,” Check says. “We all need a little fun.”

  Harrison’s opinion of Benson’s best friend goes up about three notches. But he doesn’t say anything. Just waits, ready for the fight that’s coming.

  Music thumps and Harrison takes another sip of the cool liquid. Already his headache is fading into the background.


  Gonzo’s body language softens first, and he says, “Alright. Let’s call it a temporary truce. But this doesn’t mean we don’t think you’re a prep-school creep.”

  “Wow, thanks,” Harrison says.

  Rod continues to stand rigid, glaring at him. Like an AttackDog on high alert. Except uglier, Harrison thinks, chuckling at his own thought.

  “What are you laughing at?” Rod says.

  “Nothing,” Harrison says. “Are we partying, or what?”

  That seems to do the trick, as Rod bobs his head in resignation. “Fine. Temporary truce.”

  “Thanks,” Harrison says, and this time he means it. The last thing he needs right now is a fight.

  “You’ve got your drink, but you still need some paint,” Gonzo says. He grabs two jars off a nearby shelf and gives one to Rod. “You do his clothes, I’ll do his face.”

  Harrison considers refusing, but doesn’t want to do anything to make them change their minds about the truce. “Be gentle,” he says, closing his eyes.

  “Gentle’s not really in our nature,” Gonzo says, grinning. “Fun is though.” He goes to work on Harrison’s face, using a finger to draw on his skin. He feels Rod rubbing paint onto his shirt. He even smacks him on the butt for good measure, which will surely leave a giant fluorescent hand print. Awesome.

  When they finish, Harrison opens his eyes and the pair step back to admire their handiwork. “A work of art,” Rod says. “Nice work, Gonz.”

  “Perfection,” Gonzo says.

  Harrison can see the paint glowing on his cheeks and lips and nose. On his shirt are metallic silver crests that look like ocean waves catching early rays of morning sunlight. They’re actually pretty cool-looking. “Thanks,” he says.

  After that, they hit the dance floor. Harrison finishes his drink and has another. He grabs four of them from a woman with long red eyelashes who passes by with a tray. He hands them around to the others. They drink together, and this time the drink is in a round glass ball with a straw sticking out the top. The liquid swirls with incandescent reds and oranges. It looks like a fireball. Or the sun. Appropriately, the drink is hot, burning his throat on the way down. A good burn, sending warmth throughout his entire body. The liquid tastes faintly of cinnamon and chocolate. The foursome clink their glasses and suck the drink through their straws, shaking their heads to various degrees.

  They laugh when they finish, their inhibitions falling away like colorful leaves in autumn. The music picks up and they dance, slow and controlled at first, but then fast and urgent later, after they’ve all had another drink, something clear and bitter.

  The drink server with the long red lashes approaches Harrison, her hands empty this time. She puts her hands on his chest and runs her fingers along one of the waves, from bottom to top and back down. “Nice paint job,” she says.

  “Nice lashes,” Harrison says.

  “I’m off-duty now,” she says.

  The way she’s looking at him, the way she’s batting her long lashes, gives Harrison the usual thrill he gets when he sees a beautiful girl. And this one’s a knockout. Dark hair streaked with fluorescent blond stripes. A dazzling smile that accentuates her full lips. A petite frame, but not weak-looking.

  This is a no-brainer, Harrison thinks.

  And yet, he has no urge to move forward.

  “Maybe next time,” Harrison says, plucking her hands from his chest.

  “There won’t be a next time,” the girl says, her smile vanishing. “By the way, you look like a clown.” She struts away, slipping gracefully through the crowd.

  “Are you into guys?” Check asks, apparently having witnessed the whole exchange.

  “No,” Harrison says.

  “Then why?”

  “I’m not in the mood,” Harrison says.

  “Fair enough.”

  At least an hour later, Harrison can barely remember his exchange with Simon, can barely remember why he ever didn’t like Rod and Gonzo, can barely remember why he rejected the girl with the long lashes, and can barely stand.

  “Better get going,” he says, barely able to make the wise decision for the group.

  “C’mon, prep-boy,” Rod complains. “You done already?”

  “No,” he says. “It’s just time for the after party. We’ll take it to the room.” He grabs a bucket full of metal cans.

  “I’m starting to like this guy,” Rod says.

  Together, they push through the mass of squirming, writhing bodies and out into the empty corridor. The sudden silence is deafening, the thump of the music like a distant thunderstorm, fading away with each step. They hold each other up, staggering like a single newborn organism still getting used to its body.

  “Where do you think all the free drinksh come from?” Rod slurs.

  “Minda told me the Lifers get funding from some rich guy who believes even rebels need to let loose every once in a while,” Check says. Harrison is just sober enough to notice that Check seems the most in control of any of them.

  “You’ve been hanging out with Minda?” Gonzo says. “She’sh hot.”

  “Yeah,” Check says. “I’m attracted to her half the time and scared of her the other half.”

  Gonzo and Rod laugh likes it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

  “Hey, Harry,” Gonzo says.

  “Harrison,” Harrison says.

  “Harrrryyyy!!!” Rod shouts.

  Gonzo erupts with peals of laughter.

  “Yeah?” Harrison says.

  “You got a thing for Destiny?” Gonzo asks, trying to wink but blinking instead.

  “No.”

  “Riiiight,” Rod says.

  “She’s interesting,” Harrison says.

  “She’sh hot,” Gonzo says.

  “You’d think a bowlegged miniature horse was hot right now,” Check points out.

  More laughter, but no denial.

  “Destiny got two schtitchesh today,” Rod says.

  “Stitches,” Check translates.

  “Yeah, they pulled a schliver of metal out of her back. It was the schize of a pin,” Gonzo adds.

  “How do you know?” Harrison asks, suddenly feeling the most clearheaded he has all day.

  Check steers the group toward the lifter. “We talked to her for like ten minutes before we came here. Why?”

  Something pricks in the back of Harrison’s mind. Some memory, or piece of information, or fact. Something...important? He’s not sure, his head swimming once more, all clarity washed away by the drinks and Simon’s head butt and general fatigue. He’ll think about it later, if he remembers.

  They pile into a lifter and ride it back to their sleeping quarters.

  ~~~

  Article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Lifers Strike Again! Bomb Blast Rocks Downtown Saint Louis

  In the third of a series of bombings that have occurred over the last two weeks, the largest prison in the country was hit, a maximum security facility that specializes in the necessary termination of prisoners with sentences greater than ten years. The prison known as The Way Station has been lauded by population control experts as “a crucial element to the survival of the RUSA.” It’s estimated that more than twenty thousand births are authorized each year due to prisoner terminations occurring at the prison. Twelve guards were killed in the attack, while there were no prisoner fatalities.

  The rebel organization known as the Lifers has once more claimed responsibility for the bombing. In an encrypted message sent to Pop Con, the Lifers vowed to cease all attacks once Pop Con has ceased all termination activities related to unauthorized citizens, including Jumpers and Diggers. Authorities were unwilling to discuss the possibility that the Lifers’ broader purpose for their recent spate of bombings is to open up new birth authorizations for hopeful want-to-be parents.

  The response from newly appointed Head of Population Control, Corrigan Mars, was short and to the point. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” he said. He also added,
“The Lifers’ days are numbered.”

  Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now. NOTE: All comments are subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

  Comments:

  SamSnipe1: Go get ’em, Mars. My sister works at that prison. She survived, but she lost two friends in the bombing. The Lifers are murderers.

  WeAreTheLifers: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

  CorriganMars: My condolences to your sister, SamSnipe1. I agree with your classification of the Lifers as common murderers. Justice will prevail.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Jarrod’s at it again,” Benson says, reaching over to pass the holo-screen to Luce.

  Benson, Luce, and Destiny are sitting on their respective beds, forming a triangle. Janice is in the middle of the triangle, lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. The rest of their friends haven’t come back yet. Benson wonders what condition they’ll be in when they do.

  Luce scans the article and tosses it across to Destiny. Janice’s eyes track the projectile like it’s a bird. “Tweet,” she says. And then: “Shut up, Zoran.”

  Destiny refuses to catch the device, letting it skitter across her bed. From afar, she reads the three-dimensional letters floating from the screen. “I don’t get it,” Destiny says. “Jarrod is a Lifer?”

  “Their leader,” Benson says, nodding.

  “He doesn’t smile,” Janice adds. “No smiles, no piles, no trials, no…” She touches the stone-tiled floor beneath her. “…tiles.”

  Benson only realizes it’s a joke when Janice’s eyes dance with delight. It makes him want to smile but he doesn’t. “Good one, Janice,” he says.

  “I’m Mom. Not Janice. Michael is gone and so is Janice.”

  “Okay,” Benson says, feeling a pang of pain in his chest.

  Having watched the exchange with interest, Destiny says, “But this is Refuge.”